In 2009 we saw the launch of both the RSV4 Factory and RSV4 R and Max Biaggi won one race at Brno. Then the first double win arrived at Portimao in 2010. Clearly the RSV4 has already started achieving the success Aprilia hoped for back in 2005. Robbiano started his career working on another legendary superbike though, the Ducati 916 under Massimo Tamburini. This is Robbiano's story.

At the age of 44, I'm lucky because it is a long story in a very short time! First of all I started under Massimo Tamburini on the Ducati 916 project during 1991; I did not touch the clay model of this bike but I made many drawings that Massimo used. The first bike that I worked hard on was the Mito Ev in 1992, the 916 daughter! When I left CRC to follow my own way I had the great opportunity to make, on my own during 1995, the styling project of the Bimota 500 Vdue. The bike had a great design success and for the first time I felt really like a motorcycle designer. In 1997 I made the design of the Bimota SB8R. In 2003, when Bimota reopened, I had the greatest challenge of my career: the Bimota DB5 mille. Winning the MDA award with that bike was fantastic; for the first time I was officially on the top. In 2005 the Bimota DB6 Delirio gave me great satisfaction, we arrived second in the MDA and the market made the Delirio the best selling Bimota bike for years after! In 2006 and for all the time until March 2007 I've been working on the Aprilia RSV4.

On Massimo Tamburini:

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Much of motorcycling here is seen as largely recreational, so like any non-essentials in life during hard times, the fun stuff has got to go, or at least gets dramatically de-prioritized.

And even though we're essentially a month into 2010, we're still seeing reminders of how tough last year was for motorcycling in the U.S.:

• The physical remnants of Buell are about to go on the auction block; the very equipment used to manufacture the only mass-produced sportbike of U.S. design will likely be scattered to the four winds.

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On the surface, BMW bike names aren't any more difficult to understand or remember than the alphabet soup employed by Harley-Davidson. But the process by which the names were formed from can be rather difficult to keep pace with as BMW added more models over the years. Sure gives us a new appreciation for Roadliner and Valkyrie Rune...

Thanks to BMW for supplying the article.

-Pete Brissette

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In the 1953 classic Columbia Pictures "The Wild One" Marlon Brando, aka Johnny, and most of his Black Rebels MC buddies trundled around on Triumphs and other Brit bikes while the "bad guys", as represented by Lee Marvin (playing the part of Boozefighters MC co-founder "Wino" Willy Forkner), rode Harleys. Not so incidentally, and here's a bit of trivia...what was the name of Marvin's gang...give up? The Beatles. No kidding and some think the inspiration for the band name chosen by those four Mopheads who later made a few records. Adding fuel to the fire is the fact that the Beatles used the scene from the movie where Marvin introduces The Beatles at the beginning of The Beatles Anthology. Plus a photo of Brando as Johnny showed up on the cover of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. (Want more trivia? Johnny's last name in the movie was Strabler.)

By the way, the Trumpet Brando rode in the film was his personal bike, a 1950 Triumph Thunderbird 6T (Lee Marvin actually desert raced his own Triumph Tiger Cub). There has been some confusion as to what he was riding, thanks in part to a publicity still in which Brando is seen astride a Matchless twin with the "M" turned upside down., the bike actually belonging to a stunt rider named Wally Albright. In addition the public seemed to have the uninformed general impression everyone was riding "Hogs," even though the Triumph logo was visible, this being the first film in which the manufacturer's logo on motorcycles was not blanked out. The public was also somewhat misinformed as the movie's screenplay was based on a short story published in a 1951 issue of Harper's magazine called "The Cyclists' Raid" which itself was based on the July 4th 1947 Hollister "incident" which received notoriety thanks to LIFE magazine. At first the U.S. importers of Triumph at the time, the now iconic Johnson Motors, initially complained the movie gave their product a bad name, but that perception changed radically as the movie added to the mystique of Triumph and to showroom sales. Oddly enough "The Wild One" was banned in the Triumph's home country, England, until 1967 and then only with an X rating! Go figure.

As for Steve McQueen's famous, though thwarted, escape attempt on a motorcycle in "The Great Escape" circa 1967, he rides a German WWII Wehrmacht gray painted 1961 Triumph TR6 Trophy Bird. As is well known McQueen was an expert rider, competing in many racing events and happy to perform much of his own stunt riding. His motorcycle skills, however, got him in trouble early on. For example, although he dropped out of school in the 9th grade he was later accepted at the Carnegie Institute of Technology, but was expelled for riding his bike through the halls of the College of Fine Arts building. Later his film company, Solar Productions, produced a movie called "On Any Sunday." Now that's art.

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It was a lopsided 24-7 victory for the Dolphins and their second Super Bowl win in a row. It was a good day to be a Floridian.

I remember because I grew up in South Florida, ate lunch frequently in a barbecue place plastered with Dolphin memorabilia, plus I was still having childhood flashbacks about a dolphin named Flipper.

Maybe you don't remember any of that, but chances are you might remember a TV commercial aired during that Super Bowl. It showed a guy on a motorcycle flying over a fleet of Ryder trucks. It was such a hit that it made Ryder the number-one rental truck company. Ryder then aired it during the Super Bowl (a 30-second commercial cost $103,000 in 1974 money!), and some 140,000,000 people saw it, that is, saw daredevil Bob Gill successfully complete the jump.

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Having joined Indian in 1909, Al Crocker - credited for pioneering that company's overhead valve racing efforts - became a Los Angeles Indian distributor in 1928. Then at age 53 he set out to design and build his own motorcycles, doing so one cylinder at a time, his one-lung short-track speedway race bikes (some 30-32 built) scoring well in competition.

But it was his V-Twins referred to as "two-wheeled Duesenbergs" that would carve his niche into fame and fortune, though not his own. Totally unrelated in design from his single-cylinder engines, the Twins embodied a unique vision when first launched in 1936. Using aluminum components and powerful engines, they literally outclassed the competition, however, in very limited numbers. While estimates vary, it appears that only 61 to 64 Big Tank V-Twins were built from 1936-41. Of that number an estimated 42 to 50 survive today, including the 1939 example pictured in this story. (Several more were assembled in 1942 from extra motors that had been built and from parts previously not meeting Crocker's inspection criteria.)

'The Crocker motorcycle fans the flames of passion on many levels'

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This quick one-on-one gives us some great insight into what makes Mat such a great racer. We particularly love his straight-shooter style of answering. His attitude toward the testing process for racing is rather revelatory and seems like an open window into his incredible success in AMA Superbike.

Something else worth noting is the very brief discussion, if you can call it that, about the upcoming changes to Superbike in 2009 in light of Daytona Motorsports Group holding the reigns to AMA pro racing. Though Mladin tactfully avoids getting into what would only be a bunch of unnecessary speculation on his part - he claims he only has time to think about 2008 - it still got us thinking about what you, our loyal readers, might think about how next season will be different.

Enough has been said already this year by DMG that we can safely assume 600cc-based sportbikes will become the premier class next season. This "Daytona Superbike" category will also include various non-four-cylinder bikes similar to the current rules for Formula Xtreme, and it will use spec tires and spec fuel.

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Getting naked gets you noticed. We've all seen the iconic image snapped at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah on a Monday Morning, Sept. 13, 1948 where a guy wearing nothing but a Speedo bathing suit and tennis shoes is lying flat out on a Vincent itself going flat out. Rolland "Rollie" Free rode into legend that day on a specially prepared British built 1948 Vincent HRD. His achievement, and perhaps moreover that famous photograph, has left an indelible impression. But looking a bit closer you'll find a photo also taken at Bonneville of another rider stretched out flat on a Vincent, though not in a bathing suit, himself a motorcycling legend who's blasted his way to even more records...and is still making them.

We're speaking of Martin "Marty" Dickerson. Though not prone to wearing Speedos at speed, he's been inclined to establish and break records for more than half a century. You could say Marty always traveled with a fast crowd, his speed-challenger buddies including both Rollie Free and Burt Munro, the latter now a household name thanks to the 2005 film "World's Fastest Indian" starring Anthony Hopkins. While Burt passed into the history books in 1978 and Rollie in 1984, Marty, born in Inglewood, CA, on Nov. 3, 1926 and now in his 80s, is still twisting the throttle WFO. While men his age are worried about breaking bones climbing off a Barcalounger, Marty's still climbing aboard a Vincent and blasting across the Salt Flats at over 150 mph.

It all starts back in Los Angeles circa 1948 when Marty traded in his post-War Triumph Tiger 100 for a Series B Vincent Rapide, the new bike having recently made its debut in the U.S. at Mickey Martin's bike shop in Burbank.

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Motorcycling became more mainstream than ever, inspiring TV shows and spurring new manufacturers that specialized in high-dollar custom niches. In fact, biking became so popular that it hardly qualified a participant for rebel status anymore, despite closets of sinister black T-shirts.

Cruisers comprise the largest market segment in history, although sales fell off after 2005 and are flattening out. Yet this market still accounts for 45% of all new streetbike sales, according to industry analyst Don Brown. Experts caution, however, this is no time for manufacturers to back off building and promoting new models.

The Big Four Japanese makers-Honda, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Suzuki-are built to endure a slump in any one two-wheel segment. They have the diverse product lines and extensive international distribution to take a few hits and not flinch. Collectively, their cruiser numbers are huge.

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This story may sound like a train wreck...and it is. People go flying, trains go flying, Victory bikes get chopperized. And it all takes place in historic Danbury, Virginia. All aboard! Motorcycle.com's Twilight Zone travel bureau has got your reservation. Don't worry about luggage.

Danbury's roots go back to 1728, during a survey of the area considered a bit of paradise. Settlers poured in, and by act of the Virginia State Legislature on November 23, 1793, the village was officially named Danville. Not after some guy named Dan, but a reference to a Biblical land of milk and honey. It also became a popular "rally" spot for veterans of The Revolutionary War who gathered their once a year to catch fish and swap old war stories.

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When the engine was finally killed, an appreciative roar rose up over the gathered crowd outside reminiscent of Romans cheering surviving Gladiators in the coliseum. The billowing clouds of tire smoke slowly dissipated, gradually revealing a young man sitting astride the sparkling green custom bike that was cradling one of Kenny Roberts Sr's GP powerplants. Sands was smiling slightly, with a kind of contented satisfaction. As is his nature he was quiet. Sharing the spotlight alongside some of the most revered custom bike builders in the business, his V5-powered custom creation had just spoken for him in tacit affirmation that he had, in fact, arrived.

In the custom bike realm - renowned for heated verbal jousts and inflated egos - the 33-year old former roadracing champion quietly goes about his business, detouring from conventional thinking and cross-breeding contrasting genres of motorcycling in one wonderfully strange metallurgical two-wheel marriage after another. Anyone who would squeeze a Proton V5 motor into a custom platform paying homage to the un-sprung glory of the boardtrackers of yesteryear in a beautiful aesthetic of new and old most assuredly is coming from a very unique perspective.

Six months after the fumigation of the V.I.P. center I find myself searching for the RSD shop in Southern California to meet the maestro himself. Getting closer to my destination I begin to envision the all-too familiar atmosphere that tends to permeate custom bike build shops. I imagine acetylene torches burning hot blue, cutting and hacking pieces of rusted iron, accentuated with the whine of grinding wheels and sledge hammers smashing parts into place. I half expected the prerequisite skull and crossbones adorning every paintable surface. Envision trashcans full of aborted attempts of hand shaping aluminum gas tanks and a team of pit bulls patrolling the perimeter of the razor-wire-topped chain-link fence. I should have known - based on the sano, immaculate work of this emerging craftsman - to check my preconceptions before I left home.

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"When most kids are moving up to a bigger bicycle, I graduated to an engine," Davidson noted of her introduction to motorcycle riding.

But it wasn't Davidson's introduction to motorcycles. If you're wondering, yes, Karen is one of those Davidsons (great-great granddaughter of company co-founder William A. Davidson) and the father who thought it was important to teach his children how to ride a motorcycle at a young age was none other than Willie G. himself. Davidson shared her experiences in St. Augustine, the last stop she and a group of fellow female riders would make before they rode into Bike Week 2008, where hundreds of other women riders would join them for a parade through the streets of Daytona Beach.

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Josh Hayes rode 69 nearly flawless laps to finish ahead of 68 other riders in the 2008 Daytona 200. Hayes and his team gave a dominating performance on the track but lost the race in their garage, getting disqualified for an illegal modification to the crankshaft in the Erion Honda CBR600RR. In the same event, five-time Daytona 200 winner Miguel Duhamel had scrapped his way from last to fourth place in 54 laps, only to see a black flag calling him back into the pits. He had been disqualified for switching motorcycles after the race's opening lap. Two more incidents were added to a list of tarnishes that have happened at America's premier motorcycle road race.

"Sanctioning racing is, even on its best day, controversial," said American Motorcyclist Association CEO and president Rob Dingman before the start of the 200. "The AMA should never be associated with controversy, but our brand is mired in controversy."

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If you've heard of Scott Russell but aren't too familiar with his career, here's a quick rundown. He started racing in the AMA in 1987. In 1988 he was runner up in the 750 Supersport class and was named AMA Superbike Rookie of the Year. He dominated the old 750 Supersport class, winning it three years in a row (1990, 1991 and 1992). In 1991 he won every single race in the series. He was AMA Superbike Champion in 1992 with Muzzy Kawasaki and was named AMA Pro Athlete of the Year. The next year, he moved with Muzzy to World Superbike and became the third American to win the championship (still Kawasaki's only WSB win). That same year he won the Suzuka Eight Hours with teammate Aaron Slight. In 1996, he took over Kevin Schwantz's place on the Lucky Strike Suzuki team in Grand Prix racing. In 2005, he was inducted to the AMA Motorcycle Hall of Fame.

Scott Russell has always liked to go fast. He started off on a Kawasaki Ninja, riding hard on the street, watching tapes of Grand Prix racing and then trying to emulate the world champions' moves on public roads. In 1984 he traveled to Daytona for the Bike Week festivities and ended up at the racetrack. Sitting in the grand stands behind Turn 1, he saw Freddie Spencer ride his way to three wins and was inspired. He immediately set road racing as his goal.Racing became his life, to the point of nearly losing his life to racing. In 2008, Russell and professional motorcycle racing are back together again.

"Racing was my escape from the street," Russell noted. "I got to the point that I knew if I didn't get on the track I was going to end up in jail or sliding off the mountain somewhere."

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At the multiple workstations, vintage automobiles and motorcycles are in various stages of restoration. Among the shelves of fenders, pistons, crankshafts and wheels are newly arrived shipping crates from all over the world, no doubt containing difficult to find pieces that will facilitate the resurrection of some of history's motorized treasures.

Everything the eyes settle on intrigues, from the bikes and cars, to the wall art, to the array of machines and tools the full-time staff of seven utilize to breathe life back into these rolling gems. And it's all remarkably clean. All I could muster upon entering the somewhat sanctified building was an appreciative sigh and a soft, "Wow, this is great." That's when the owner of this gearhead's dream, American late night talk show host, Jay Leno, turned to me and said, "Jeff, this is just the shop."

Leno, the comedian who helms NBC's immensely popular Tonight Show, proceeded to lead me across the parking lot and into an adjacent building, opening the door to 100,000 square feet (about the size of a Tesco Store) of automotive and motorcycle splendour. For anyone in possession of even the slightest sentimentality or appreciation for motorcycles and automobiles, the contents of the place will almost certainly-either figuratively or perhaps literally-bring you to tears.

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From our western-world perspective, it's easy to imagine that Japan's motorcycling scene will be a showcase of rolling-on-two cutting edge technology. Well, people here might use the most advanced mobile services, have microchip controlled toilet seat heaters (a real treat, really!) and hop on ultra high-speed trains on a daily basis, but their rides are a different story altogether. Need a quick identity-kit for the average rider in Tokyo? Deep into nostalgic/retro stuff; a low-tech lover; doesn't really ever gas it; and maybe worst of all, often has a very dubious taste.

The strange hints start arriving as soon as I hop on the bus that takes me from the Narita Airport to downtown. I was half expecting to see hordes of two-wheelers in every stop light, but by the looks of it but the picture is far removed from Italy's mad city GP starting grids.

The second truth hits after a few days of strolling through town: An exaggerated majority of Naked Retros, while at the other end of the scale, customized scooters, ranging in freakiness from mild to wild, abound. The "in" thing to have in one of the world's style capitals is a 250-400cc scooter that's loaded with stuff from Japan's equivalent to Custom Chrome's catalog. Ornate chromed stick-on accents, tubular handlebars on billet risers, underslung neon lights that create funky effects during night rides. As if this wasn't bad enough, many of these crazy creations border on the really tasteless.

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So I took it upon myself to persuade my neighbor Matthew to buy a motorcycle the next day and ride with me 24 hours later. With a case of beer and a Georgia Cycle Trader magazine in hand, I drilled and pressured Matthew, refilling his drink and describing in painfully long-winded monologues the pleasures of riding and the life that comes with it. Two hours later, a phone call and an agreement to meet up with a seller the next morning, the cards were set in place. It only took $4,500 to scoop up a stunning 2003 Honda Shadow Aero Classic 1100 with a black-on-chrome finish and 4,000 miles on the clock. She was a beauty. Matthew named her Marilyn, and we drove her home that day.

That night we prepared. We gathered our gear, half a metric ton in clothing, and the mindset to burn 350 miles south to Pensacola in weather not expected to top 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Those kind of temperatures may be cold, but they're nothing compared to the wind chill that comes with riding over 75 mph on the highway. I figured we could expect temperatures to settle to 10 below, given the wind chill.

Morning came quickly that Tuesday in January, but not in the form of streaming sunshine or songful birds, but in the form of an obnoxious clock radio and a disheartening color of black in the windows. It was still dark outside and very, very cold. There's just no reasonable explanation for not taking one's car when facing environmental conditions such as these. But that's just it. To hell with reason. Riders live to ride and ride to live, so come hell or high water those wheels are gonna burn. After a solid breakfast of eggs on toast, my neighbor and newest riding buddy Matthew pulled up with sleeping bag and pillow bungied to his sissy bar.

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I began my odyssey of riding motorcycles in Korea in March, 2006. In need of alternative transportation as public buses/subways wouldn't get me to my university teaching position within a reasonable amount of time, I returned to my childhood pastime of riding Honda 90s on the dirt trails of my Alaskan hometown and bought a used Hyosung 125cc cruiser.

Despite being built with a Harley-Davidsonesque Hog image, I still cannot compare the two cycles - at least not with a straight face. Instead of trying, I have affectionately nicknamed my Korean bike the "Kimchi Piglet" as it has the porcine image but still hasn't properly grown up yet. With my new companion, I set out to explore the world of motorcycle riding in my adopted land.

Although Korea has a strong motorcycle culture from a utilitarian standpoint, cycling here is not exactly for the faint of heart. In general, traffic is a snarled mess; too many cars packed onto narrow roads, barely adhering to normal driving rules, and administered by a police force more eager to give parking tickets than truly enforce the laws. This environment seems to be established as a motorcycle heaven for those who enjoy an aggressive driving style. The old bumper sticker declaring, "If you don't like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk," was probably written by someone who had spent some time here. Street shoulders, sidewalks, and crosswalks were all made for motorcycles, weren't they?

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"Okay," my wife answered.

All the best ideas are simple. Three websites and 45 minutes later, I presented my wife with The Plan. It called for us to cruise around the top half of Lake Michigan aboard our Honda Shadow Spirit 1100, loaded with two medium-sized TourMaster saddlebags and a cavernous borrowed sissy-bar tour pack.

Plans change.

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Glenn Bator of Bator International, an enterprise that deals with a wide spectrum of vintage, classic and antique motorcycles, the likes of Flying Merkels, Cyclones, four-cylinder Aces and Reading-Standards, made his pick a few decades ago, his first "investment" being a 1957 Sportster. It was the 99th bike to come out of the Milwaukee factory. Today you can find that very same Sporty on display at the famous Barber Motorsports Museum in Birmingham, Alabama.

No stranger to museum quality restoration work, Glenn would later find himself wrenching on bikes for the late Otis Chandler and his museum in Oxnard, CA. Over an eight year period as General Manager he was kept busy restoring or recreating famous motorcyclesincluding replicas of "Capt. America" and the "Billy Bike" bike from the movie "Easy Riders," as well as classics like Curtis, Excelsior and Indian.

In 1994 Glenn struck out on his own when he founded Bator International. "Basically I now do for myself what I did for the museum, dealing with high-end motorcycles. I was already established in the community so I utilized my knowledge and connections I had established to start Bator International. Last year (2005) we grossed $1.5 million in motorcycles sales, all from basically a little mom and pop operation." Glenn's customers are of the deep pocket variety, and include the National Motorcycle Museum, the Barber Museum and even Harley-Davidson to whom he supplied, among others, an all-original Two Cam factory road racer brought out of Switzerland. "They were very happy to get it back."

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The roads in the Pyrenees, that big rock barrier separating France and Spain, reflect centuries of effort that began with the Romans to carve passages in rock precipices paralleling streams a hundred feet down from the stone rails marking the edges. The time it took, both geologic and human, to create these serpentine cliff hangers suggests we ride slower, look around, and expand our sensual intake. The motorcycle, however, tempts us to compress the experience to a series of slalom turns on asphalt slopes until, at the bottom where the road widens, we can exhale and relax.

'The Pyrenees lie 700 miles from Munich, where our group of four started and I'd picked up a BMW K1200GT.'

The Pyrenees, which are older than the Alps, offer the motorcyclist more than mountainous terrain and twisting roads. They present a different and even unique motorcycling experience to the European as well as to the American rider. Like the plates colliding below, Catalonian and French cultures meet in the mountains.

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In less than an hour I cross the border to the Czech Republic and it's really another world. Right after the border, the road is lined with makeshift gift shops that carry everything: souvenirs, clothing, wooden statues and Chinese made TVs and DVD players. Another few miles and the landscape turns flat, and the villages by the side of the road don't look so merry. Plenty of little houses that have seen better days, and if that's not enough, the road's quality quickly deteriorates. This is the kind of thing that you'll never see if you take the plane straight to Prague. As if to prove the point, some 30 miles from the capital, the road turns into a proper highway again and, after passing the airport, huge banners line the road, trying to fool me into believing that I'm in the West again. But even these sharp passages can't diminish the impact of entering that diamond of a city: Prague.

As I hit its periphery, the heavily decorated houses tell me straight away that I'm in a different place. Another few city miles and, as I cross the bridge that spans over the Vltava River, the city opens up in front of me like a fan. Amazing castles line the hills that rise from the river while their countless pointy towers stab the sky. My GPS brings me straight to my hostel; not having to take off my gloves in order to unfold and fold maps is becoming really addictive. The hostel is in the Zizkov neighborhood that overlooks Prague from the east and has a huge telecom tower as a landmark. I drop my stuff in the room and stash the K-12 in a locked parking area. BMW's PR officer has already warned me that in East Europe the bike isn't covered against theft....

From the first tourist map that I grab, it's easy to see that the historic city center is quite small, less than a mile by a mile, so I proceed by foot. Well, it might be small but what a pearl! I enter the center by walking through the old city hall gate and all of the sudden I feel like I landed in another century. If there's one thing that characterizes Prague, then it's the fact that for hundreds of years, through countless wars, it remained untouched, intact, and in some of the smaller streets it seems like time has stood still for the last 500 years.

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Considering he's built over 200 cars for the movie industry (and wrecked a bunch of them, deliberately of course), you could say Eddie knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth - unless it's a Boss Hoss with twin blowers and a nitrous oxide system bolted on top of an already chomping-at-the bits Chevy V-8, the package good for 1,700 horsepower. "I figure it can go 300 mph, but I haven't really nailed it yet," says Eddie of El Segundo, CA, from his 35,000 sq. ft. design and fabrication facility.

I first met Eddie about 25 years ago on an L.A. movie set where they were filming "Streets of Fire," a fairly bizarre retro-futuro Wilhem Dafoe-starring flick about warring street gangs. Eddie had been hired to wrangle the "extras" for the biker sequences as well as gather a bunch of cars including propeller-nosed '51 Studebaker. Eddie had called in a bunch of his friends from various bike "clubs" who historically had not been all that chummy with each other, but peace held throughout the filming. Eddie went on to direct the special effects for classics like "Gone in 60 Seconds II," aka "Junkman," and built cars for "Grease," Stallone's "Cobra" and Vin Diesel's "XXX" among many others.

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Another few dark junctions and flyovers, and I am riding along a wide boulevard. Now it's Berlin's huge telecommunications tower that takes over the task of leading me in, and just like the moon, it too is bathed in golden light. It's been a very long day, nevertheless I felt secure and relaxed being accompanied by these huge lanterns. What a good start.

I knew that this summer's big ride would be different; I wanted it to be so. Less V marks on the map, less peg dragging around fast sweepers, more feeling. Less low flying, more taking it all in. Instead of waking up in another motel on every morning I want to stay, mingle and absorb. Not that I have chosen a slow mount for the task, a 152 bhp K1200GT can hardly be called a slouch.

But this time I planned to give much more attention to places rather than roads. The target: East Europe. Yes, I know the Berlin wall fell 20 years ago. Now there's only one Germany and the Czech Republic and Hungary are members in the European Union. But something about the denseness, gothic-ness and darkness of the area managed to pull me away from my beloved Alps this time.

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But the Isle of Man TT has continued on and has become more than a championship. It soldiered into its 100th anniversary this month, full of crazy British nutters letting it all hang out with their elbows mere millimeters away from sturdy rock walls.

Not of the crazy ones are from the UK. Canadian transplant Mark Gardiner got so caught up in his dream to race the TT that he sold all his possessions to make it happen in 2002. He didn't win the race - nor was that a goal - but he came away from it changed profoundly. The experience inspired the motojournalist to write a book called Riding Man.

Gardiner recently returned from the centenary TT races at the island in the Irish Sea, which turned out to produce an event even more epic than usual. Since he's a FoMO (friend of MO) and he'd like to sell you his book at ridingman.com, he offered to file the report below.

When I arrived on the Island in the middle of practice week, the place was already crammed with fans. There were almost as many people watching midweek practice sessions as there were watching midweek races when I was last here. There's quite a tradition of playing fast and loose with visitor estimates - there certainly weren't the 150,000 bike fans that MCN breathlessly reported - but the early crowd was much larger than normal and all the locals wondered where they'd put up the "real" crowd expected for race week.

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- BMW releases its F800 as a way to entice younger, sportier riders into its loving fold. Fonzie rides the sporty S and its touring-accented brother, the ST, around the Big Island of Hawaii. We'll let you know whether this bike is a smart marketing move or if it's priced itself out of the market.

- Through a special arrangement with an OEM, we'll bring you a sneak peek and riding impression of a new bike that will be coming to our shores later this year.

- Stay tuned later this summer for an oddball sport-tourer comparo in which we'll thrash them on the way to and from the MotoGP extravaganza at Laguna Seca.

Additionally, we'll be offering up plenty of relevant product reviews, interesting lifestyle pieces and lots of memorable rides - all with a regularity you can depend on.

MO:2 is gonna be good. Please trust us when we tell you with complete sincerity that you'll be glad you've been a member of MO, whether it's only been a couple of weeks or what must seem like an eternity.

Stay tuned as we bring you the best in motorcycling, delivered to you in the inimitable MO style. It's going to be an exciting ride, and we'll be thrilled to have you tag along.

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Webster Dictionary Definition of Moped: a person who mopes or is given to moping.**

Across Europe, Vespas or Lambrettas are simply referred to as mopeds. However, try telling an American who's riding one that he's on a nice moped and he'll retort sharply, "It's a scooter, not a moped! You see any pedals on this thing?" Why the animosity? I have no idea, but being British and having made that mistake with a few American `scooter' riders, I now know better. Never, ever call a `scooter' in America a `moped'. Enrico Piaggio is credited with the creation of the first motorscooter/moped. It came during a time when much of Europe was still coping with wartime gasoline rations. In December of 1947, the Vespa made its debut. Piaggio gave the bike its name after the president of Piaggio remarked that it was shaped like a vespa (Italian for `wasp'), with similar aerodynamics and bulbous fenders.

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I attribute a good part of my callous exterior to the survivalist mentality I developed as a motorcycle courier. Frantic secretaries and attorneys routinely demanded, "You have to get there! Today is the last day!" All too often they were oblivious (imagine that!) of what it took to travel 15 miles during the heart of L.A. rush hour traffic with only 25 minutes before the courthouse closes. Hours and hours of preparation on a "Motion to Dismiss" were in jeopardy if I didn't make it. Wonderful.

After years of this I developed nerves of steel, a complete disregard for my own safety (many would say the safety of others), the requisite riding prowess to slice through traffic like a ninja, and an immense hatred of the legal profession.

"Over time my riding was sharpened to a razor's edge."

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In 1973, I was in the 10th grade and a rabid Jawa-CZ freak. I wore a different CZ jersey to school each day. I had CZ stickers plastered on every textbook and folder. I sported a CZ "hot-hat." I drew the CZ emblem on everything, even dogs (cats wouldn't hold still). My hamsters were named Barum and Jikov.

I was in the 10th grade and a rabid Jawa-CZ freak. I wore a different CZ jersey to school each day. I had CZ stickers plastered on every textbook and folder. I sported a CZ "hot-hat."

Of course, I didn't own a CZ (or Jawa), or hadn't even ridden one. But that didn't stop me from eating, drinking and living CZs. Like someone afflicted with Jawa Tourette's syndrome, I would blurt out obscure Jawa-CZ trivia to anyone who would listen. The names of factory riders, compression ratios, how many fins the new radial head had, etc. There were two other Jawa-CZ freaks at school and we'd gather at the same place every lunch to trade new commie tidbits. People thought we were strange, subversive even.

Around the tenth grade, my parent's worst nightmare came true and I got my learner's permit that allowed me to operate a motor vehicle during daylight hours with a licensed driver in the car. That rule didn't apply to motorcycles though. And since my two CZ buddies (Karl and Earl) had just gotten their parents to buy them new Honda SL100's, I started working on my parents for a new "enduro" motorcycle of my own.

My situation was special. My mom had divorced and moved back in with her parents. The decision of what motorcycle to purchase ultimately rested on my grandfather, a product of the great depression. Around the tenth grade, my parent's worst nightmare came true and I got my learner's permit that allowed me to operate a motor vehicle during daylight hours with a licensed driver in the car.Gramps was frugal, to say the least and after we visited many local motorcycle shops, it became clear that I'd have to mow lawns and deliver newspapers for at least 15 more years before I had enough money to buy a new Honda or Yamaha. Both went for the pricey sum of four hundred 1973 dollars out the door. It looked like I'd have to wait...

But that all changed a week later, when the next issue of Cycle News came out. There, in a 1/4 page advertisement in the classified section was perhaps the best motorcycle ad I'd ever seen:

We Have Obtained A Limited Quantity Of Jawa 90 Racers From The Factory. New-In-The-Crate Genuine Jawa Motorcycles For Sale At The Unbelievable Low Price Of $250.00 Each. Own One Of These Marvels Of Czech Engineering, Manufactured By The Holder OF 33 International World Titles, Jawa-CZ...

The ad showcased a black-and-white picture of a Jawa 90, with the camera angle pointed just right to highlight the radial head and trick-looking banana frame.

I was speechless. I didn't even know Jawa made a 90cc racer, much less a street-legal one. Joy! Was this too good to be true? I ran into the living room and showed my grandpa. The address was in Van Nuys at someplace called Whipsnade Trading & Import Co. I called my two CZ buddies, Karl and Earl, and chided them both for purchasing an inferior Honda product. Made in Japan, indeed. I ran around the house yelling, "Motokov! Falta! Pal! Boborovsky!" I was in heaven! Some called it madness.

My grandpa was impressed. A new European motorcycle in the crate for half of what a Honda or Yamaha went for? So we got into Grandpa's '68 GTO and drove to the address listed. It turned out to be a big garage next to some railroad tracks in a run-down section of Van Nuys. Sitting in the middle of the dimly-lit garage at a card table was Mr. Whipsnade, counting $20.00 bills out of a lockbox and chomping on a cigar. Crates of new Jawa 90's were stacked to the ceiling. "You know my lad, all the factory Jawa-CZ riders started off on this very model, and that Dave Bickers himself had once...blah blah..."

"Come in, come in please! I see you want to purchase a new Jawa 90 Racer. You couldn't have made a better choice. Here, have some doughnuts..."

Twenty minutes later I was the proud owner of a new Jawa 90. As Mr. Whipsnade "I rode the snot out of that little Jawa, and when I finally sold it 10 years later, it had a Honda 150 rear wheel, the frame was bent and everything was held together with hose clamps and duct tape."helped us load the crated Jawa into the Pontiac's trunk, he kept up the sales spiel: "You know my lad, all the factory Jawa-CZ riders started off on this very model, and that Dave Bickers himself had once...blah blah..."

I wasn't listening, instead fantasizing about zipping along some ISDT trail in the Black Forest, on time and on gold.

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Ah, Rome. The Eternal City is full of romance, history and plenty of traffic, so if you're a motorcyclist, you might think it would make a lot of sense to see the city by scooter or motorcycle, avoiding legendary Roman traffic jams as well as maybe fulfilling some kind of Gregory Peck/Audrey Hepburn fantasy.

But where do you rent a scooter? Do you need to get an Italian license? How much will it cost? Is it dangerous? Do I need to speak Italian?

Relax; MO sent your trusty Senior Editor to Italy this summer to answer just these questions, taking a generous tax write-off to sweeten the deal. But before I went, I did a little research on our good friend Mr. Internet to see if I could glean some useful data. Is the Information Superhighway good for anything besides porn? And do I care?

A quick Google search of "Scooter Rental Rome" gives you a litany of choices, and most of them have prices and descriptions of their services on their websites. Having a scooter shop operator speak English is a plus, unless you speak Italian (note: learning Italian will save you a tremendous amount of trouble. I know it's not practical to learn a new language just for a short vacation, but you've been warned. In fact, you might want to even apply for Italian citizenship.), and it's easy to figure out who speaks English, as they have a web site in English.

I decided to go with Bici & Baci, a small rental shop near Rome's massive central train station. Owner Claudio Sarra not only speaks English that is far superior to my Italian (actually, there is a trained gorilla named "Guiseppe" in the Naples zoo that speaks better Italian than I do), he also answered the phone when I called him. This attention to detail and superior customer service made his shop an easy choice, so I made the reservations weeks before my trip.

Apparently there is something called an "International Driver's License", and it's very easy to get one. It's basically just a card that has a translation of your entire driver license's information on it in several languages, and not an official government document. I didn't bother getting one, and it was never an issue in Italy, although other countries might not be so laissez-faire . I hear the Germans tend to get pretty worked up over proper documentation.

Although Rome is a beautiful city drenched in history, culture, art and wonderful food, it is also hot and incredibly crowded in the summer. The Wife and I arrived late in June, when temperatures were over 100 degrees with high humidity, and the crowds and pollution were Pink Floyd-concert thick. It was so mobbed with tourists that some areas of the ancient city looked like refugee camps for people with cameras. Next time, we'll go in the winter or spring, or just kill ourselves in the train station rest room.

We navigated the surprisingly good (and unofficially free) Roman bus system (the subway is good too, but it mostly connects the business center of the city to the outlying suburbs) to the train station and found Claudio's tiny shop, which is located on a confusing side street that somehow manages to be one way in both directions (this is something you will understand only once you have been to Rome). It's crammed with scooters of all descriptions, along with tchotchkes, books and other scooter memorabilia.

That didn't keep them from outfitting us in matching helmets and getting us out on the street in a very short time. The mount was a Kymco Movie 125, although I had fantasies of getting a buzzy little high-performance two-stroker to zip around on. No dice: according to Claudio, the days of the two-stroke small-displacement scooter is quickly coming to an end in Rome, and the four-stroke 50 and 100cc scooters are too underpowered to carry passengers safely on the ancient, yet mean streets.

We make a left, a right, go down a block, make another right, and then it's a left, and then we can't go the direction we wanted to because of the bus lane, and then it's a one way the wrong direction, and then we go left, and then right, and then we're back at the giant hideous monument to King Emmanuelle for the third time in ten minutes.

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Edinburgh's Royal Mile was a non-stop barrage of stimulation as I sat drinking a cappuccino with my nephew Robin last summer. Surrounded by stunning Georgian and Victorian architecture, a never-ending flow of tourists, locals, fire juggling street performers, double-decker buses, and even the occasional man in a kilt, the piece de resistance was the magical view through the buildings to the shimmering Firth of Forth at the bottom of town. Riding a motorcycle in Scotland for the first time in quarter of a century, I was enjoying a day in the saddle of the new Triumph Sprint ST with Robin and a chance to relax in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe.

I was in Scotland to take a Highland tour with my good friend Dennis Gage and his son Sam. With the addition of my "wee" 220-pound nephew along for a day, a good opportunity to check out the Sprint under load, so to speak, presented itself.

For this mission I dialed in extra pre-load in the rear, threw him on the back with the camera gear and took off. The rear end still felt a little vague on the tight, twisty Scottish back roads, but once we hit the motorway this was forgotten. Getting up to speed (as in 80 mph-ish), I was most impressed by the way the bike would pull our combined weight, without really needing to drop a gear when overtaking. For our trip I had installed Corbin seats, and even with my six foot four passenger in place, I didn't feel too cramped on the journey. Wind protection was more than adequate on the often-gusty trip and we arrived in Edinburgh a couple of hours later feeling refreshed.

A couple of days later Dennis, Sam and I started our trip, but with school still in session, unfortunately Robin wasn't able to join us. As part of our mission in Scotland was to film a television documentary about our experiences, we didn't have to load the bikes down with luggage thanks to the support vehicle. We did make sure we were fully equipped in Motophoria's latest adventure touring gear though, as the weather in Scotland can turn harsh and cruel at a moment's notice. This turned out to be a wise move, because leaving the west coast basking in 80 degree sunshine we had no way of knowing how cold and damp it would get later on the Isle of Skye

[Hmmm? I wonder if the islanders like Skyy Vodka?-Ed. Only if they want to be burned for heresy! They drink delicious Talisker Scotch! - The Other Ed.]

With only a few days to travel, we planned a loop that would take us over the River Clyde and north up along the west coast where we would pick up a ferry to the Skye. Then we would cut back to Loch Ness, up to Inverness and return home by one of many routes, depending on how much time we had. Traveling on the small country roads of my spotty youth, I became immediately impressed with an attribute of the Sprint that testing in America hadn't really revealed. Trundling along between the high hedgerows, and rolling across metal cattle grids and patches of loose gravel, the first part of our journey was spent in low gears at very low rpm. Here the Sprint just totally impressed me, by how precise the low rpm fueling was, and how easy it was to modulate the throttle to deal with the different riding situations. Over the next few days, we would do a lot of turning for the camera, often in the tight narrow Scottish streets, and the nimble Sprint just handled it with aplomb.

We had crossed the River Clyde and cleared the seaside resort of Dunnoon before we had any chance to open the bikes up. Roaring along the A 83 at a steady 65-75mph in the afternoon sun, with the big three cylinder humming beneath me, I was having one of those perfect motorcycle moments. The view along Loch Fyne was of sparkling water, a gentle mountain range sparsely dotted with trees framing out the picture. The challenging two-lane roads were lightly trafficked, and lined with fir trees that sailed by in our peripheral vision. Topped by a light blue sky and clouds so white they could have come out of a laundry detergent commercial - it could not have been more perfect.

As this was our first day, we were busy working out the kinks of our onboard communication systems between the two bikes and the support vehicle. And, in complete disagreement with the current trend of reality shows cluttering up network television stations, where unpaid wannabes are busily overacting being themselves in hope of a Nike contract, our little team was starting to gel fast. This is such an important part of any motorcycle travel, and good partners, evenly matched equipment and flexible attitudes sure make the best ingredients for a good time.

Dennis had adapted to the Scottish life in moments, and every time we stopped he would busily engage some friendly local in conversation as we learned the history of the area we were traveling through. Scotland just keeps getting more rural as your travel further north, and leaving the modern world far behind we rode on in the warm sunshine, heading to a place where manners and customs still mean something. The landscape got harsher and more rugged; as did the people, and pausing to gaze across the Sound of Shuna we pulled our cameras out at the sight of Castle Stalker. Built by the Stewarts of Appin in the 16th century, it sits on a small islet at the edge of Loch Laich. A basic-looking three-story rectangular building, it was abandoned in 1780 and is only reachable on foot when the tide is out. Making for some picture postcard perfect photos we learned the current owner has been restoring it since 1960.

Having hiked and camped all through this area with my high school sweetheart many moons ago, I picked Fort William as a destination for the night and we motored on. With the picturesque town built on the edge of Loch Linnhe, and overshadowed by Scotland's highest mountain, Ben Nevis, it was a decision welcomed by the gang. The tight narrow high street, with quaint curiosity shops and pubs is most charming and Ft. William is a must if you are visiting this area.

Our start the following morning was slow and leisurely as we debated a couple of options to cross to the Isle of Skye. Electing to take the more direct route, we stopped for a photo opportunity at the top of Loch Shiel. Staring up at the massive viaduct made famous in the Harry Potter movies, and gazing at a huge statue of a kilted highlander in memory of Bonnie Prince Charlie, it was one of those moments when you have to pinch yourself to see if you are dreaming it was just so magical. Roaring off into a tunnel of trees along the twisting, winding two-lane road, we positively flew up to the lonely port town of Mailag where we would pick up our ferry.

Waiting our turn, we made pleasant conversation with a German couple riding their own bikes on a two-week tour and once onboard did some filming and interviews, much to the amusement of our fellow passengers. Even during the summer months a stiff breeze blew in across the bow, and the dark, murky waters looked cold and foreboding as we made our way across the Sound of Sleat and our next adventure with a Highland Bagpiper in the town of Armadale. Taking the time to chat, we got a quick life history in between his wonderful Scottish reels and hymns.

The Isle of Skye took a whole day for us to circumnavigate, and gave us some wild weather as we toured this fascinating island. Primed by the tourist board's headline, "500 million years of history whispers across the inlets, cliffs, mountains and glens of Skye, the Island and Lochalsh," we marveled at the jagged peaks of the Cuillin Mountains, stood in awe at Dunvegan Castle and froze our arses off crossing to the quaint fishing village of Portree. Battling strong winds and occasional slashes of ice-cold rain across my face shield, I ducked down behind the Sprint's fairing and weathered the storm.

Once in Portree it was time to warm up and indulge in a 5,000-calorie deep-fried meal of fish and chips as we enjoyed the brightly colored houses that ran alongside the harbor. Thawing nicely as fishing boats and pleasure vessels bobbed calmly on the light swell of the incoming tide, we sat awhile to watch the world go by in the largest town on Skye. Later that night, sitting comfortably in the well-appointed living room at the Toravaig House we discussed a most interesting day over a pint of good Scottish ale. Dennis was highly animated about the Sprint's abilities, Sam had no complaints from the passenger perspective other than sitting up a little high in the cold air, and my only negative comment was that the weather protection isn't as complete as the earlier model.

Leaving the Isle of Skye, we rode over the long bridge at the Kyle of Lochalsh and enjoyed a pleasant visit at Scotland's most visited and photographed castle, Eilean Donan. Providing Kodak moment number 322, we had to literally force ourselves back on the road. Had we known what was next, we would probably have saddled up sooner as we chased each other through the stunning steep-sided Glen Shiel. Offering the perfect sport-touring scenario of fast flowing, lightly trafficked roads, the stunning mountain scenery to our sides was highlighted by an aqua blue sky. The gearbox was dancing, and the three-cylinder engine rising and falling musically up and down the rev range as we blasted into corners, before using the strong mid-range to accelerate away on the other side. Shedding the touring part of their moniker, it was all sport as we made our way back down to sea level and a scheduled stop to see if we could find the Loch Ness Monster. This proved about as futile as me trying to get a date, so we sped off and enjoyed the majestic views across Loch Ness. Spinning through patches of sunlight piercing the overhanging trees, the names of the Scottish towns kept a near permanent smile on my face: Drumnadrochit being my favorite. Picking the skiing town of Aviemore for the night, we again opted for one of the many Bed and Breakfast Inns available, and took off to find a wee pint of ale and some sustenance before bed.

Riding in midsummer, the sun comes up early and our last day on the road saw us enjoying a variety of incredible activities again. The misty, magical castle grounds at Rothiemurchus; a fast-paced race to the top of the Cairngorm mountains for the uninterrupted views that stretched for miles in front of us, and some of the tightest, narrowest single track roads of the journey. Ending with a spectacular ride across the Erskine bridge that crosses the River Clyde, we had come full circle as we made our way back to my sister's house in the small town of Houston. It had not been a journey of epic mileage, but that had never been our mission. We came to enjoy this sparsely-populated country that is steeped with fascinating history and blessed with its own uniquely beautiful landscape.

Throw in top-quality roads, first-class company and a motorcycle that must surely be a contender for Sport Tourer of the year, and as any good Scotsman will tell you, "you canny whack it."

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American Road Classics in Fort Lauderdale has kindly provided one of their machines for a week but when I get there, no bike is to be seen. "Someone was supposed to return it yesterday but they called just now and said they will bring it back late," says Eric Lamb, who staffs the outlet. Fortunately the company has three locations in southern Florida and a fleet of 50 bikes so a replacement is en route. This turns out to be a Harley Davidson 2003 Heritage Classic Soft tail.

The delay gives me a chance to ask Eric about local biking routes and as we talk, a man comes in to rent a V-Rod. Eric completes the paperwork and tells the guy that he needs to wear a helmet to ride away. "It says 'Rental bike' on the back of the helmet," he says.

"You're kidding me!" the guy says, annoyed. "How am I supposed to pick up girls with that?"

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But wet feet were the least of my worries. My faceshield and the wind screen on my Ducati 748 were starting to go opaque with the ice that was beginning to form on them. Hand and foot controls were developing a greasy uneasiness to them, as the Ducati skated along the interstate with a confidence-killing vagueness. Cars began to pull off the road. I began to consider the possibility that my Bike Week journey to prove the practicality of the superbike of the century might end prematurely, quite possibly painfully.

There's something about growing up in a farming community that instills a value system where an object's worth is equated with its ability to function. I could never justify having money tied up in a motorcycle that would be ridden ten weekends out of the year. For me to own a motorcycle, it had to be used as year-round daily transportation.

My taste in motorcycles followed the practicality of my riding style. After a series of standards, the local mountain roads made me yearn for something sporty. I considered every model that seemed to combine functionality and clip-ons, from VFRs to SV650s, before settling on a Honda Hawk GT. The GT fit the bill perfectly. With its single overhead cam, three-valve engine I could do my own maintenance. I added a set of soft bags and regularly made 300+ mile trips on a bike that featured a stock seat and a set of F2 clip-ons. The Hawk's narrow V-twin chassis and light weight made it perfect for everything from lane splitting to mountain carving to hunter-access road adventure touring. It was a bike that did everything and did it well. I was content.

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Have you got a taste for good Chianti? Can't have a meal without an antipasti first? Do you have a preference for tight-fitting and/or mesh undergarments? Do you only obey traffic laws when it makes sense to do so? Does the sight of a swoopy, steel-bodied motorscooter make you swoon?

Answering "yes" to more than three of the above questions means you are either actually Italian or a Vespa enthusiast. Maybe you rode a Vespa in college or high school, back in the day when you could pick up a decent used one for a few hundred bucks. If you're like me, you have some great memories of the distinctive ring-ding-ding of the motor and the smell of two-stroke exhaust as you rode around town care free.

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The Iron Heart 1000 is simple in concept: ride 1000 miles in 24 hours. Its organizers, Bill Davis and Michael Moorhouse, first put the event together in 2004 as a fundraiser for cardiac research. Riders from Phoenix, Tucson, San Diego, and Ontario (CA) start out simultaneously on a whirlwind tour of the desert Southwest, stopping at a checkpoint in each city to verify mileage.

After checking out their web site (these guys are well organized) I hit up my brother and local Christian Motorcyclists Association chapter for some co-riders. We ended up with an interestingly diverse group: Bob and Bill on their Winnebikos (aka, Gold Wings), David and Rodney on their Harleys, my brother on his Vulcan 800, and me with my Buell. Tourers, cruisers and a naked streetfighter...six American-made motorcycles and only two were Harleys! We must have made an interesting sight as we assembled at Rawhide at 6 a.m. Saturday morning for check-in.

Rolling out at 6:20 with Bill in the lead, we headed south on the Loop 101 out of Scottsdale under hazy skies. Boy, traffic's sure a lot lighter at that time than during my daily commute! Heading east on U.S. 60 we left Phoenix behind and cruised into the golden Sonoran desert morning, the Superstition Mountains looming ahead. As we ride through Gonzales Pass, the saguaros give way to trees and scrub. Past Picketpost Mountain we head into Superior where the sun starts to burn through the haze. Finally on the other side of Queen Creek Canyon as we pass Oak Flat the sky turns that bright blue for which I love Arizona.

Hmm. It's sunny now, but someone forgot to turn on the heat.

Early forecasts predicted temperatures in the high 80s. Someone got it wrong. The Buell eats up these curves like my kids do Halloween candy, but it's cold even in my full leathers. More on this later. Much more.

Dropping out of the mountains we pass through the near ghost town of Miami, once a booming mine town. Little left but a few antique shops among the abandoned and boarded up storefronts. Just beyond is Globe, a still-active town with quite a bit for tourists to enjoy. It's our first checkpoint of the day and we're feeling pretty good, despite the cold, to have knocked off the first 100 miles.

Can't dally, though. After topping off our tanks (or frames in my case) we headed south on AZ 77 into the Mescal Mountains. I'd never been on this stretch before, but will definitely return. Miles of lazy turns wind through Capitan Pass then the road drops down to follow the Gila River past a couple old mines to Winkelman. Turning to follow the San Pedro river along a lush riparian valley, AZ 77 twists back westward through the towns of Mammoth and Oracle, skirting the Santa Catalina Mountains on its way into Tucson. Weekend traffic has picked up by the time we get to town, and I'm finally starting to warm up as we idle our way through the stoplights to the Harley dealer...our second checkpoint.

We are to discover, as we go along, that the checkpoints are staffed by very helpful and friendly volunteers. They offered us snacks and drinks, including bottles of water to take with us for the dry stretch ahead. Fortunately for us, this checkpoint was, as I mentioned, a Harley dealer. Rodney's bike was making a rather unpleasant sound (no, not the normal HD noise). Within minutes the guys in the shop had his bike on a lift for a look. It took longer than we'd hoped, though, and armed with cell phone numbers, Rodney told us to go ahead. He'd call and catch up if possible.

So we headed west on I-10 out of Tucson, the sun shining brightly by now and the temperatures up in the low 70s.

Comfortable, but still not warm enough for this desert rat. This next leg will stretch my bike's gas to the edge unless we stick pretty close to the speed limit, so I get to lead this time. Why couldn't I lead through the twisties? Until we hit Casa Grande we play an endless game of passing trucks and weekend cagers, but then we turn west on I-8 and pretty much have the highway to ourselves.

For anyone who hasn't taken I-8 across southern Arizona to Yuma, this is dull road! There's literally nothing to look at but miles and miles of open, empty desert. When you hear me talking about how much I love the desert...this ain't it! But I've got the tunes cranked on my iPod Shuffle to pass the time, and there are still much worse things I can think of doing right now. Yard work comes to mind. Finally we reach Gila Bend for lunch. After 300 miles a Subway sandwich sounds pretty good. David calls Rodney's cell phone to leave a message with our location. A few minutes later he gets a call back...the folks at Tucson HD got him back on the road (for free) and he's actually about 30 miles ahead of us trying to catch up!

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This part of Georgia was all once part of the Cherokee Nation, an independent nation within the boundaries of the United States. The nation was established by treaty with the U.S. in 1819. In its brief existence, it included parts of four states. (The map is courtesy of cherokeehistory.com.) The Cherokee Nation (outlined in red) was less than a tenth of the lands that the Cherokees had once controlled (the larger grey outline). Their lands when the white man arrived had covered more surface area than many historical kingdoms that we now call "empires." Parts of seven states once fell under control of the tribe (eight, if you count West Virginia, which wasn't established until 1865).

It's easy to get to these roads. Take highway 400 north from Atlanta and turn left (west) onto Georgia Highway 53 at the factory outlet mall. After passing through the small town of Dawsonville, Highway 53 climbs up 45 miles of rural two lane, gently sweeping around mountains and through valleys. The road adapts to the contours of the land. Riding up here, I feel like I'm skimming across the asphalt surface, close enough to be a part of the road, fast enough to lose myself in the act of riding. Along the way you pass through the town of Tate, one of the major centers of the marble mining industry in the U.S. (In Tate, even the elementary school is made of marble.) When you reach I-75, go a few miles north, then take the exit for Highway 225.

There's not much of anything at the foot of the ramp, just the ability to turn left or right. Go right. In a couple of miles, you'll see a golf course on the left. Slow down and turn right into the New Echota State Historic Site.

Usually only a few visitors are at the site at any one time. Guilt may have something to do with that. I told you there were sad stories in these mountains, and this place is the key to what may be the saddest. Highway 225 is the Trail of Tears Highway. Here at New Echota one of the biggest dreams in this nation's history was born. In the fall of 1819 the Cherokee Council began holding meetings in Newtown, near the center of their new nation. In 1825 they renamed Newtown and called it New Echota. If you walk the grounds, several structures dot the landscape, some original, but mostly reconstructions. Here was their legislature, their supreme court, and their printing press, which printed The Phoenix, the first native language newspaper ever printed in the United States. Smart lads, the Cherokees. Their great scholar, Sequoyah, who had no formal schooling, figured out how to write their language down. It took him twelve years, but he did it. He is the only person known to have single-handedly created a written language.

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Going on a road trip is like going to a restaurant in many ways. Looking at the menu, and scanning a map both make you decide what to order, and how much. Staying in one place and soaking up as much as time will allow is like ordering the 24 ounce steak with no sides. Bouncing from place to place will be like ordering a sampler plate. It gives you a taste of everything, but you can't really fill up on just one item. If I had to describe my latest journey in dining terms I would have to say:

"Waiter, bring me the Mucho Grande Southwest Sampler?.and a couple Margaritas to wash it down."

The "Southwest Sampler" would encompass 6 states, 2800 miles, and 8 National Parks in two weeks, along with all the stunning scenery the Southwest can deliver. This would be our honeymoon trip, for my wife Jennifer and I, and we have been planning this trip since well before the wedding. She and I were hungry, the table was set, and we were ready to dig in.

MO was nice enough to provide a 2006 Harley-Davidson Electra-Glide Classic as our touring mount. This one came with fuel injection and the new CD/XM radio combo. Since I already own an '01 Classic, packing for the trip was simple. We just packed our two saddlebag inner liners and top box liner for the plane trip to L.A. and dropped them in the bike upon arrival. The bike itself was barely broken in with 670 miles showing on the clock. MO photographer Fonzie had taken on the task of running it in a bit before I arrived, so the blue, silver and red beast was ready for action.

The first leg of the journey would be from L.A. to Las Vegas. It was Saturday, and I had a couple of warnings not to travel into the desert during the day from Sean, and also Buzz Waloch, who is an MO contributor and friend. They insisted that it was just too hot out there to travel in the daytime. They suggested waiting until late in the day to start, or even make the trip at night. Their words made me think twice. I had also spoken with Fonzie about my plans at the MO office when I picked the bike up Saturday morning, and he summed up his feelings in one sentence: "Just go. It isn't going to kill ya." Their words were ringing in my ears as I was relaxing on the Redondo Beach Pier. Jen and I talked it over, and we decided Fonzie had the right idea. It wasn't going to kill us?or would it?

As we headed out of L.A. on Saturday morning the traffic was terrible. It reminded me of what we wanted to get away from. Jen pointed out a sign that read: "There are two things you can count on in SoCal. Good weather, and bad traffic." They were right. Once we hit Interstate 15 the traffic started to subside, and by the time we hit Barstow we had better traffic, and hotter weather. By the time we rolled into Baker, we realized why it was named such. It is the baker, and you are the "bakee". It was pretty hot there, but nothing we couldn't handle. Maybe stopping at the Mad Greek's for a quick snack and some cool air helped, but heading up and out of Baker, the heat didn't seem bad at all. The miles seemed to fly by, as we rode along the edge of the Mojave and then into Nevada. It wasn't hard to tell when you crossed the border.

There was casino after casino, welcoming us with open arms. We rolled into Vegas about 5:00pm and stopped to grab some water and pondered where to stay for the next couple of nights, when the Vegas version of the "Welcome Wagon " comes to greet us asking for cigarettes and money. He seemed to have been recently dipped in dirt, and his eyes were redder than any tomato I have ever seen. And he was persistent. I tried to shoo him away, but he wasn't leaving, and was starting to get seriously angry. This is not how I wanted the trip to start. He finally got the hint and started to walk, but kept hovering around. Instead of warning me about the heat, Buzz and Sean should have warned me about this! Anyway we got a place to stay and then proceeded to hit the town that night and had a blast. I also had a chance to buy a three-carat diamond ring from a nice jewelry vendor in a beat up old Chevy. It was nice of him to drive all the way out to see me, but I declined his offer.

Only in Las Vegas! The next day we planned to do a day trip to see a man-made wonder before we hit Nature's wonders.

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Located on the rugged Central Coast on Hwy 1 in San Luis Obispo County and often referred to as "Slabtown" in the late mid-1800s, Cambria was officially founded in 1869. All manner of industry passed through this sleepy, oceanside village during this time; fishing, mining, dairy and beef ranching, lumbering and farming, to name a few. Today Cambria's primary industry is tourism.

MO started the trip in Ventura when we got on Hwy.33 from the 101 Fwy and headed northeast to the Ojai area. The 33 is a favorite of local motorcyclists and even those not so local, for its well-maintained road surface that will take you from tree-lined canyon carving to panoramic views once you reach its sandstone peaks. Then it brings you gently down on the other side to the valley floor by way of wide, high-speed sweepers at which point it becomes a flat, rather bland run of some 20 miles until it connects to Hwy 166. With elevation changes ranging from several hundred feet to over 4000 feet, this stretch of road will have you in awe as you look back on the snake you just rode.

Before we got terribly far along the 33, we made a stop at the Deer Lodge. Originally founded in 1932, this rustic restaurant and bar specializes in wild game and fowl. The exterior clearly reminds one of a lodge with its use of river rock foundation and fireplaces. The rest of the structure is, well, simply made of wood. It seems everything is made of wood, from the bar and bar stools, dining tables and chairs to the floor, walls, ceiling. So much of it looks hand carved that you'd think it was still 1932 inside. Adding to the atmosphere are the seemingly innumerable works of taxidermy. Many of the ceiling lights hang from antler chandeliers.

If this all sounds a bit too rustic and 'lodgey', don't worry, it's all done in good taste.

Picking up Hwy 166 from the 33, we headed east to the little, one stoplight town of Maricopa, where we again pick up the 33, heading north thru a dusty or rather oily town by the name of Taft. The rather flat countryside is littered with hundreds, if not thousands of oil wells. It's a surreal scene to say the least. But it's over before you know it and one of the greatest roads known to many Californian motorcyclists is just over the horizon. Highway 58 seems as if a cycling enthusiast specifically engineered it. With a surface better than most racetracks, this road is like an undulating black ribbon stretching across grassy, rolling hills occupied only by the cattle who reside there. Up and down, left and right, tight and slow, fast and wide this road is something that every motorcyclists within at least a couple hundred miles needs to experience. There's even a section that is the equivalent of a motorcycle roller coaster ride. A series of short, rolling dips will have you coming out of your seat if you carry the right speed. No matter if you ride a Goldwing or a GSXR1000, this road will please anyone who takes the time to seek it out as an alternative to droning down the freeway.

Eventually the roller coaster ride evens out into smooth, gentle turns once the 58 nears the 101. From here we opted to enjoy the relative ease of just cruising down the freeway as we took the 101 North, passing through Paso Robles and eventually came to Hwy 46 and headed west. Where the 58 is a veritable sportbike play ground, the 46 west of the 101 is a cruiser's delight, with its long straights, mild sweepers and gradual climbs and descents. Once you come to the end of the 46 you can go no further as it makes a "T" with the Pacific Coast Highway.

Turn north on the 1, also known as "PCH" and you're only a heartbeat from Cambria.

The village of Cambria is on the east side of Hwy 1 but a vast majority of lodges, motels and inns reside on the ocean side of the road, taking full advantage of the Central Coast views. Our stay for the night would be at San Simeon Pines Seaside Resort located on Moonstone Dr. Moonstone Drive picks up where Cambria ends or begins, depending on your path of travel. Opposite Hwy 1 from the north end of Main St., this little piece of pavement has the Pacific Ocean directly to the west and roughly a dozen motels and inns to the east. San Simeon Pines Resort sits at the northern-most end of Moonstone Dr.

Originally built in the 1950's, this resort maintains much of the look and feel of that time. Surrounded by towering pine trees and just a hop, skip, and a jump from the beach, this resort is probably one of the better bargains in the area, especially during their off season. The off-season starts in early September and extends to the end of June, with the usual holidays blacked out. We were able to procure a cottage for just $99.00 a night. Don't be fooled by the words "off-season." Typically, off-season prices are lower for a reason but in Cambria's case one of the best times to visit is during the late fall months. The weather is at its mildest and room availability is good even at the hot spots, a little-known secret that a local clued us into. The "cottages" are spacious inside with a king size bed and their very own fireplace. But don't expect the full effect of your favorite log cabin memories, as the fireplaces aren't supplied with wood but instead are supplied with compressed wood discs and some odd, flammable goo as a starter.

Not exactly quaint but once the fire is going you tend to forget and appreciate the fact that you didn't have to go out and gather your own wood after a long day of riding.

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Luckily an atonement day arrives. Turns out that I have a work meeting in Barcelona on a Friday, if I take Thursday off and use the weekend for the return leg, I'll have a nice, 1,500 mile "ride to work" loop. Should make up somewhat for my everyday sin, me thinks. Apart from that, I've the new Triumph Sprint ST 1050 to test, a good chance to see how those triples are on a really long run and if this is really the new anti VFR. So then, Wednesday evening after work I pull into to the premises of Triumph's Italian importer. I throw my soft bags (the original hard luggage wasn't available) over the ST and proceed to tie up a tube with blue prints and a box with models I have to present at the meeting to the rear seat with bungee cords. Stefano, Triumph's PR guy, gives me a strange look; have to wonder why...maybe it's because of the way the huge tube protrudes out to the sides?

I hit the road then, and in order to avoid the evening rush hour around Milan, I opt to head towards Torino and enter France from the Alpes area instead of heading to the Italian Riviera. I'd rather spend some time on the twisties than droning on the highway and Michelin's excellent map site says that I'd be adding only 40 miles to my loop. Smart boy, ain't I? After a few minutes on the ST, it looks like its going to be one comfy and fun ride. The new 1050 Sprint is a perfect fit for my 6'4" frame. The seat, although deeply carved, is really plush and there is plenty of legroom. That Battle of Britain/Spitfire sound emanating from the impressive under seat can filters through my earplugs and urges me to roll it on.

Super, by 9:00pm I am nearing the French border but it turns out that I wasn't all that smart after all in choosing my route. I've forgotten that the Frejus tunnel between Italy and France was closed down due to a fire a few months ago and all the traffic is diverted to my beloved secondary roads. But the worst is yet to come. My plan is to continue riding till darkness and then find myself a cozy hotel and a good French dinner but while getting near nearer to the French border, I discover that the area is uncommonly busy considering it's off-season. Strange. As I cross the border and pull into the first Hotel I spot, I notice that the parking lot is crammed with colorful vans and trucks... The receptionist gives me the bad news. The Tour de France is in the area and there's not a chance in the world to find a hotel for the next 60 miles. Maybe deep, deep in France he reckons. In the meantime it also has started to rain.

Well, that's what I call a good start. I ride on towards Briancon but all hotels are choked full. In the meantime, the ST is doing all it can to keep my spirits high. At night, in the downhill and wet mountain twisties west of Briancon, the last thing you want is a peaky powerband and nervous steering. This peachy triple though pulls so nicely from the lowest of revs without a hiccup and the front feels planted and reassuring even in these nasty conditions.

It's already 11:00pm; there's no hotel in sight and the hunger overcomes my resistance.

Out of choices I pull into a McDonald's on the roadside and eat my little grease spot while fireworks light the sky in honor of the tour and Mr. Lance. I couldn't care less. Where's my French dinner may I ask? It's only by 1:00am that I reach the large village of Gap, and at last, I do find a room in the sleaziest hotel in town. The sultry receptionist takes me to see my room in a tiny elevator and what do you know, we get stuck! Great. In theory this could lead to some steamy action in an unconventional location but in my condition, all I want is a bed and to be alone. The rather attractive fake blond starts yelling "Merde, merde!" while kicking the door and eventually the elevator frees. While in the room I finally take my earplugs out to discover that in the City Square nearby there's a rock concert with speakers blaring. Out of choices again, I put them back in my ears for the night.

I wake up at 10:00am, the sun is shinning, and the rain is all but a memory. Guess the trip starts for real now. The descent from Gap to Aix-en-Provance turns out to be a fast and furious three-lane stretch with curves gently flowing along the Durance River. A good chance to open the throttle at last. The ST just loves this kind of fast stuff. It feels utterly planted while cranked well over, yet the light forward cant and very relaxed riding position means you can also dig the vistas around you. It's got this real Gran Turismo air about it. In Aix-en Provance I pull into town for a quick lunch of Quiche Lorraine in the main square.

I park the ST just in front of me and for the first time take my time to admire it and I have to admit, it looks good and quite original. In the mean time, the square is alive and kicking, Aix is one of Provance's pearls and the big university here draws a young and hip crowd. No time to watch the birds though, I have to reach Spain by this evening. It's time to gas it some in the AutoRoute, that's French for Autostrada or Autobahn.

The first 200 miles going west aren't that interesting. The river Rhone's delta is a vast and flat area and I switch to a 90-100 drone mode.

The actual speed limit is 85 so at that kind of speed, a quick dab on the brakes will put you back on the legal zone. To American ears this might sound fast enough but until a few years ago you could tear along France at 120 without many problems. Back in `98 I did a London-Florence-London run on a Superblackbird at an almost constant 120 mph through France. These days are long gone as French AutoRoute's are filled with speed cameras, and most people really stick to the 85 limit. In such tank-fill to tank*fill stretches you can really start to appreciate the special charm of the Triumph's big new Triple. Indeed, it doesn't buzz like an in-line four, doesn't throb like a twin, only a very light hum reaches the rider. Okay, it might not be as silky smooth as a VFR but it certainly has much more presence and character.

After passing Beziers, the landscape changes dramatically. The low hills next to the sea shore turn much drier while on my left, there is a wide and flat sandy coast, totally different form that of the famous Cote'd Azure in the east of the French Mediterranean coast. I've got only another 100 miles till the Spanish border and just as I am calculating my schedule and noticing that I am running behind, an Audi Turbo overtakes me doing at least 120mph. I think I can hitch hike a ride with him.

I tuck behind the bubble, downshift twice and shoot the revs up to 10k rpm. With after burners on I cling to the Audi turbo's tail (not too close though) and together we proceed like a high speed train towards Spain devouring those last 100 miles in little more than three quarters of an hour. At high speed I also discover that sixth gear is a slight overdrive, with top speed in fifth and top gear being almost equal. Told you about the speed traps and indeed my use of the Audi as some kind of laser shield proves to be the right strategy. Near the end of the highway I spot a cop, laser speed gun in hand and miles later the Audi gets nicked while I proceed free as a bird. After last night's hassles, I deserve some good luck.

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Between my legs I have a beautiful red 1966 Motobi 175. The kick starter shows no interest in fulfilling its function so I engage second gear and run the Motobi down the street, let out the clutch and bump start it to life. As the engine catches, a little throttle turns the fragile sputter into a full-blooded Italian roar, revving harder to warm up the engine as I circle around back to the hotel.

Tomas Bascunan of Santiago's Cafe Racer Museum - whose idea the vintage tour was - is trying to kick start the sky blue and chrome 1962 BSA Goldstar DBD34. What a leg-breaker! This Goldstar is a 500cc monster that needs a good strong kick of the leg.

"This lady was built to run," Tomas says, pausing to catch his breath between kicks, "but she doesn't like waking up in the morning, but when she does she is incredible." With another kick the engine takes and deafening roar howls out of the tail pipe.

With four of us revving, an incredible throaty sound reverberates around the square, a cacophony that is out of time and out of place in the small agricultural town in the heart of Chile's wine region. First gear is engaged and one by one we file out from the hotel in a procession of noise into the open country of one of Chile's most beautiful wine valleys, 130 km south of capital Santiago.

The roads are deserted this early in the morning and as we accelerate up to 90 km/h, the crisp morning air floods my visor-less eyes with tears to the point that I cannot see. I tilt my head back to let the wind rush clear them out and whoop for joy as golden fields, verdant green rows of vines and cacti-studied hills pass by. This is motorcycle touring in an elemental form: low distance, simple roads and machines from another era. Vintage motorcycle tours is a concept developed by the Cafe Racer motorcycle museum (www.caferacer.cl) in Santiago, a

private collection assembled by Francisco Bascunan that numbers over 80 fully restored machines. On any weekend of the year without rain, relaxed pace day trips are offered for groups numbering from four to seven people, using a selection of motorcycles from the collection with fine dining at various vineyards to give motorcycle enthusiasts a unique way to see the region. "There is a public that wants to do this and it is a unique way to do a wine tour," says tour developer Tomas Bascunan. The tours also allow the museum to keep the motorcycles in use and generate an income stream for the maintenance and restoration of its fleet.

Once warmed up the Motobi runs without trouble and the vineyards, pastures dotted with grazing livestock, golden fields of maize and cereals, and low farm buildings drift by and the smells of the country fill my nose. Horse locomotion is common and we pass several horse-drawn carts and mounted huasos - Chilean cowboys - riding in poncho and broad-brimmed hat, with knee-high black leather boots and spurs that look like medieval weaponry. The people are friendly and often wave as we pass, turning with curiosity at the shining antiquities we are riding.

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Most of the folks walking into motorcycle shops have never owned a motorcycle, or haven't owned one in a long, long time. When they are younger- from 18 to 30 or so- they want a sportbike. The older ones want standards or cruisers. They usually want one of the Japanese brands, as the common wisdom of car buyers dictates that Japanese = good value and reliability.

There's another kind of buyer as well as the newbie. This buyer has had motorcycles for a long time and rides every single day. He or she wants something fast but sane, well engineered but not boring, and it has to have value. This rider is more experienced and won't be fooled by cheap suspension and braking components, uncomfortable ergonomics, or cheesy gimmicks. She demands a sturdy, well-engineered motorcycle that is engaging to ride and will last for years. They are kind of like the weird old guy in your neighborhood when you were growing up who had a million miles on his diesel Mercedes.

I'm one of those weird guys, sans 1977 300D. Over a year ago I assisted a rival website in a 700-mile road test of four budget middleweight standards: the Honda 599, the Yamaha FZ-6, the Suzuki SV650 and Triumph's Speed 4.

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We here at MO love to ride anything, anywhere, so when I was offered an opportunity to take advantage of a rental Harley-Davidson from Eagle Rider in Chantilly, Virginia on a five-day trip to Washington, DC, I quickly incorporated a motorcycle into my travel plans. All in the interest of science, I was to take a three-day rental of a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy ™ and tell you, the MO reader, what it's like to rent a motorcycle in a strange city and use it to get around, see the sights, and have a good time with in general.

Eagle Rider is a nationwide chain of independently owned motorcycle and scooter rental shops. Most of them rent Harleys, but some rent other brands, such as BMW, Honda or Victory. Many of the locations offer ATVs, dirtbikes, motorcycle trailers, and even personal watercraft.

Matt Kirn has owned Eagle Rider DC since 2002. It's conveniently located about five miles from Dulles International Airport and about 28 miles from the Nation's Capitol. Matt's a friendly guy and long-time motorcycle enthusiast who has set up a lively business renting motorcycles to tourists and locals alike.

"I was in high-tech and looking around for something to do after the dot-com bust," said Matt

"I realized the rental market in the DC area was underserved, and it would be a nice way of making a living."

Rental rates start at just $60 per day (more on weekends) with unlimited mileage for an 883 Sportster to $109 for an Electra Glide, Road King, Heritage Softail Classic, Fat Boy, or Dyna Wide Glide. For $100, you can rent a Victory Kingpin. The Heritage Softail is the most popular choice as customers seem to like the versatility of the detachable windscreen and luggage, but the full-touring Dynas are most selected for cross-country customers.

One-way rentals are also available, and Eagle Rider DC offers ½ price rates for the adventurous renter who wants to take one of Matt's bikes from a distant city back to Virginia. Up to 14 days are allowed to complete the trip, which would make an ideal summer vacation for an adventurous rider who wants to experience going cross country on a Harley tourer or cruiser.

In addition to a wide array of cruisers to choose from, Eagle Rider offers sunglasses and other accessories as well as maps of the areas and a friendly staff that keeps the motorcycles clean and well maintained. I was led to a black 2004 Fat Boy ™ with less than 2000 miles on the clock and not a scratch on it- not even on the bottom of the floorboards! I was offered one of Harley-Davidson's excellent convertible windshields, an indispensable cruiser accessory that mounts in seconds and works very well. After we made sure I was going out on an undamaged, unscratched and perfectly functioning motorcycle, I was given a brief orientation on how to work the ignition, fork and brake disc locks and sent on my way.

But where to ride to? I had no idea where to go, but fortunately, I had met a motorcycle enthusiast at a party the day before and he offered to show me around.

Dick Vosseller is an artist and art teacher who lives in beautiful Wolf Trap, just minutes from the George Washington parkway and in the heart of beautiful green woods and farmlands. We went on an afternoon tour of the area, riding around Fairfax county and then along the lovely George Washington parkway. The roads in this area are wonderful: nicely paved and shady, with plenty of twists and turns to keep things interesting.

Unfortunately, sprawl has hit this part of the country as hard as anywhere, so we spent most of our ride bumping along behind mellow-driving Virginia suburbanites, which was fine for me as I could slow down, enjoy the scenery, and not have to pay $85 each to replace over-scuffed floorboards.

The next day I took advantage of having a vehicle slightly smaller than my rented compact car to get around the equally compact environs of Washington, DC. DC is a small city that lends itself well to two-wheeled transport. Although there is not as much motorcycle parking as in San Francisco, there was more than I expected, and so there are a large number of motorcycles and scooter plying the streets. Even though lane-splitting is quite illegal in the entire Metro DC area, a determined rider can get away with sneaking around stopped traffic in the unmarked "half-a-lane" on many of DC's streets.

The warm, fresh air was waking up the city's motorcyclists, as I saw plenty of motorcycles and scooters around town. There were plenty of 50cc automatic scooters around, especially Kymcos and Vespas, which makes perfect sense in a city DC's size. The areas around the Georgetown and George Washington universities especially seemed to be breeding grounds for the buzzing, mosquito-like vehicles. Hey, Washington's built on a swamp, right?

Motorcycle parking is inadequate around the museums and National Mall, but there are lots of spots between cars an intrepid motorcyclist can share. In addition, much of the permitted parking around the Capitol building isn't checked after 3:00 PM, so you can find a spot there. Parking in other parts of the city is difficult, with permit-only parking, two-hour parking limits and the last 10 feet before each corner a no-parking zone for no discernible reason.

Maybe it was the nice spring weather, but motorists in DC are a surprisingly relaxed bunch, especially to a rider used to battling for his life in angry Left Coast traffic jams. Rarely do vehicles exceed 35 MPH in DC, and people seemed to be especially aware of motorcyclists, although I rarely ride anything with as much presence as the rumbling, hulking Fat Boy.

The weather in May is very nice, warm but not muggy. My wife Katherine and I found that t-shirts and light pants were comfortable for most days. October and November also offer nice motorcycling weather. Washington, DC and Virginia both have helmet laws, but we both indulged in wearing the half-helmet that was the only offering at Eagle Rider. I asked if any customers ever asked for a full-face helmet: they told me no one ever had.

Katherine had never spent any time on a Harley, and she took to the experience well. Although the Fat Boy's passenger seat is worse than we expected, she enjoyed the nice looks and envious glances from people on the street. She also liked the earthy rumble from the stock exhausts, and I concur. What's more American than the sound of a Harley V-Twin in Washington DC?

The Fat Boy is a good motorcycle for casually exploring backroads and wide-open spaces, but I should have taken the lead of the Metro DC Police Department and selected an 883 or 1200 Sportster for inner-city use. The Fat Boy looks and sounds great, but it is heavy and sometimes a hassle to park because of its large size and weight. However, if you were planning on a combination of city rubbernecking and backroad exploring, I would go with the Fat Boy, as nothing is more American than having more than you need, right?

Returning the motorcycle to Eagle Rider DC was easy to do, as it is so close to the airport, and Matt and Rich were very attentive and professional. I really get the feeling that they are both motorcycle enthusiasts first and foremost, recommending ride destinations before I left and asking how the ride was when I was through.


Being able to rent a motorcycle in a new city is a great experience. It allows you to make new friends easily, get around a crowded tourist destination with ease, and get out and connect with the countryside in a way you never could in an econobox rental car. Eagle Riders and Eagle Riders franchisees like Matt deserve support from motorcyclists, as they are accepting the risks of renting motorcycles to a litigious public so that a motorcyclist's vacation doesn't mean a vacation from two wheels.

There's an Eagle Rider in almost every tourist destination in the USA (as well as in Cancun, Mexico and Cannes, France), so consider them to spice up your next vacation.

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Located on Historic Route 66, the old hotel is listed in the National Historical Building Registry, and is also a favorite destination of modern-day ghost hunters, hoping for a glimpse of its resident poltergeist, "Oatie." Oatie was a gold miner from Ireland who lived in the hotel during the town's gold rush days. Many people claim to have seen Oatie in his old room upstairs, or downstairs at his favorite stool at the bar in the early morning hours. In honor of his heritage, the town still holds a birthday party for him every St. Patrick's Day.

For $35 you can spend the night here, and for $10 extra, you can even have Oatie's old room. For you romantics, the Gable/Lombard "honeymoon suite" is also available, for a mere $45. I wouldn't suggest it, though, as nothing much has been changed in the room since 1939, and that may even include the sheets.

Next to the bar is the restaurant, complete with a dance floor dominated by an antique Harley-Davidson. Live music is provided daily by Dale Thompson, who is practically as much a fixture here as Oatie was. My wife and I ordered the house special "Wild Buffalo Burger," ($6.95) plus side orders of "Burro Ears" ($2.95). The menu is quick to note, however, that "no burros were harmed in the making of these ears!" The buffalo meat has an unusual, tangy taste that neither of us found at all unpleasant, and I ordered an extra helping of the crispy potato "ears," I liked them so much.

Oatman is famous for the wild burros that roam the streets at all hours, and who have, in fact, legal right-of-way here by local edict. So if one blocks your bike, just be patient. Honking, yelling, or trying to move him out of your way in any fashion will get you a talking-to from the local sheriff.

The Oatman Hotel Restaurant is a popular motorcyclist's hangout, catering to both the road riders who pass through here in droves, and to a large contingent of dirt-bike riders who play in the mountains surrounding the town. Oatman is such a popular bikers' destination, in fact, that the Mohave County Chapter of ABATE makes this their regular meeting place. The ride east out of town on Route 66 will quickly tell you why.

The very moment you leave the town (which is only about two blocks long), the road starts heading up, into Sitgreaves Pass (3556') on one of the oldest and best-known sections of Historic Route 66, called "The Gold Road." Along this stretch, you will see the ruins of literally dozens of old, abandoned gold mines. Note the extremely-low speed signs in the corners, and take them seriously. This route features more potentially-dangerous switchbacks than just about any road this side of the infamous "Dragon" of Deal's Gap. Runoff from rains and snowmelt often leave piles of loose sand and gravel in the worst possible locations, and numerous repairs from landslides have left treacherous "tar snakes." I'm not trying to scare you away-the riding and the scenery up here are fantastic-but one needs to be cautious, and ride conservatively. This pass was considered so gnarly back in the 1920s and `30s, that several locals made a good living by offering to tow tourists' cars through it, or to drive it for them, while they cowered in the back seat.

This section of Route 66 is actually "known" to millions of people, yet they don't recognize it. This is the area referred to in Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath" as "The Mother Road," and it was here, looking down from Sitgreaves Pass, that Pa Joad made the comment that the mountains, "look like the bones of a country." See if you don't agree.

As the road crosses over to the canyon leading down into the desert, you will pass a Route 66 landmark, the Cool Springs Camp. This was just a pile of rubble for many years, marking where a famous store and gas station once stood, but had burned to the ground in 1966. A couple from Chicago have been rebuilding Cool Springs for several years now, and it's worth a stop to visit the little gift shop and museum they're putting in here.

Following Route 66 down into the desert, it will eventually come to I-40. Don't get on it. Pass underneath, and follow the signs to the north and east, to stay on Route 66. This will take you up the old Santa Fe railroad gorge into Kingman in just a few miles, and is a much more pleasant ride than the Interstate. Arriving at the first stop sign, follow Route 66 to the east, for less than a mile, and look for a bright pink-and-turquoise building. This is Mr D'z, one of the few remaining, original (okay, renovated) Route 66 diners. Stop here if you're hungry, but even if not, I'd suggest a quick stop for a mug of their home-brewed root beer to wash away the dust of the road.

Now, turn back the way you came, through the stoplight, and then follow Highway 93 out of Kingman, up and through Coyote Pass. This is a wide, four-lane highway, as it is part of the main route to Las Vegas. But our loop only going to stay on it for a short couple of miles, exiting to the right so we can turn left (west) on Highway 68, heading to Golden Valley. The other side of the valley, our loop climbs up Union Pass, for more great scenery as it heads down to Davis Dam and the Colorado River Valley. This is the route to the gambling town of Laughlin, but our loop is going to bypass the traffic and glitz, then turn south on the Needles Highway and going around Laughlin to the west. This is a picture-postcard ride alongside the Colorado River, toward Needles, California (you know, home of Spike, Snoopy's brother, from Peanuts!).

But we're not going to Needles today. Instead, about six miles south of Laughlin, look for a large, lighted sign that says "Avi Resort," and turn toward the river (east). This is the Aha Macav Parkway, and when it takes you down to the resort on the river and bends south, turn west at the stop sign onto Aztec Road, which will take you over a new bridge on the Colorado River. As soon as you get to the Arizona side, immediately turn south on the Arizona Parkway (which also has some old road signs marking it as "Oatman Road"). This will "T" in a couple of miles, and you want to turn east again. Now, depending on which road signs or map you want to believe, you are either on Oatman Road, Highway 53, or Boundary Cone Road. No matter. Stay on it, and you'll reconnect with Route 66, right back into Oatman.

The total loop is 105 miles, but it will take you a good three to four hours to traverse, and along the way, you'll encounter more Americana than you can shake a stick at. The Oatman Hotel is located at 181 Main Street, Oatman, AZ 86433; phone (928) 768-4408, and they are open Monday through Friday from 11 a.m to 5 p.m., Saturday and Sunday from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Parties of six or more should call ahead for reservations, and all major credit cards are accepted.

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So then, 'why don't you move your sorry bottom over to Italy for some twisties?' says I. "Oh, yeah? Ha! That's only 700 miles just to get there, but listen, we could meet somewhere in the middle or at least nearer no?" Okay then, ever been to the Dolomites? "Well, it's not really midway, but I've heard about this train that crosses Europe north to south on which you can take your bike and it lands in Bolzano, smack in the mid-Dolomites". Brilliant idea, a deal!

A month later, on a sunny and balmy mid July morning I find myself standing next to the unloading ramp in Bolzano's station. The long convey enters the station tail first and within minutes dozens of bikes, classic scoots, cars and whatever's got wheels on, flows out in a colorful stream. German plates abound, but there is a nice mix from all over north Europe. Dutch, Brits, Swedes, Danes. After a 12-hour ride in a night train you land in the hearth of one the most amazing riding areas in Europe without having to deal with the boring drone over endless German autobahns. MOridians might recall that some two years ago I did already a story on riding in the Dolomites, so how come are we here again? Well, although the Stelvio, Gavia and other passes that stared in that story are all a must see, must ride for European tourers, they reside at the very west end of the Dolomites range. These passes are indeed renown for their sheer and breathtaking heights but from various recommendations I've read, it turns out that if your after breathtaking vistas rather than setting height records, the central part of the Dolomites, east and north of Bolzano is the place you should spend some time on. If you are more into natural sculpting in rock, lakes with Technicolor shades and hidden waterfalls, try the "Pale Mountains", as they are affectively known.

After picking up my friend we head up back to the hotel where my girlfriend and I spent the night in, on the slopes of a mountain overlooking Bolzano form east. Ram is in a bit of culture shock. In only three minutes he's done already more leaning that he'd do in Holland in a whole year. As the three of us enter the dinning room for a kick-off breakfast, the smells coming from the kitchen aren't Italian at all. Eggs with fried bacon and there are even sausages if you're really hungry. Might sound normal to Anglo-Saxons but most Italians make do with just a brioche and cappuccino to start their day. The culinary mystery will be explained later.

The magic central Dolomites range has many gateways but there seems to be no better one to put you in the mood than the SS241 that branches off the Trento - Bolzano A22 Autostrada. Within minutes you are thrown in at the deep end of surrealistic and thrilling road that is buried inside a 100-200 ft deep canyon. It's really a tight fit and you better watch your head while cornering, the canyon walls are that close. Soon enough Ooohoos and Ahaas are muttered under helmets, the experience is engulfing. In fact, better to decide early on what kind of riding you want to do. As Keith Code says, put your $10 bills worth of attention on the endless twists and you'll be left with little brainpower to enjoy the vistas. We opt for full-on touring mode. Two super sporting riders with leathers pass us at crazy speed, zigzagging in the traffic, hanging it all out.

Not that I have something against healthy lunacy but it just looks out of place in this setting.

After such a nice welcoming we are all warmed up. We pass picturesque Nova Levante, a village that's surrounded by mountains that threaten to swallow it, and start climbing up to 5,000' levels. The character of the road changes completely and we are transported to a classic Alpine setting. At Canazei, a village that sits like a belly button in the creases between the peaks of Marmolada, Sasso Lungo and Sella, we are also reminded that this is pure motorcycle country. The Cafe's parking lots are crammed with bikes and we are compelled to stop for a caffeine recharge . Within this multitude of scooters, it's not surprising to find license plates from far away Finland and Norway. After Canazei, we must decide on our direction. It's possible to circle the mountains of the Sella range from south or west. We opt for the first in order to scout over the Marmolada's peak, the highest in the central Dolomites area with its 10,000' summit. If you have time on your hands, make sure to visit the "Ice City" by taking the ski lift. There's an amazing museum up there that documents the life of the soldiers in the network of trenches carved into the glacier by the Austro-Hungarian army in WW I. It doesn't seem like it was a particular pleasant army base to be stationed in but in those times you'd get a bullet in your head for refusing commands, no questions asked.

After the tight and gnarly Pordoi pass that takes us up to 6,700 ft. we find out that the riding in the Dolomites isn't just about 35 mph roads with countless hairpins. In the valleys that extend between the high passes you'll find fast and sweeping curves that let you forget about right hand restrain. A GSXR 1100 loaded with girlfriend and hard luggage (mine) and a Hornet 600 with a lightweight rider and soft luggage (Ram's) turn out to be interesting pair. I've got the power, he's got the agility and it turns out quite even overall. Relatively speaking, our "group" is somehow homogenous. It's not rare to spot a group made out of say, a BMW R80, GSXR750, Intruder 1400 and a Honda CB500F classic at the tail end, it being pretty obvious that they are out together for the ride. It's possible to have fun here with whatever the scoot. It ain't just the tool, you know? Before Cortina d'Ampezzo we discover the first magic lakes that hide between the mountains. It'd be pretty hard to describe the depth of the green-blue hues of their waters or the mystery that surrounds them. The pinkish mountains reflect on the quiet waters in deep shades of purple and colorful little fish give an interesting accent to the visual feast.

We stop for lunch at Passo Falzerego. Officially we are in Italy and indeed, you'll find Polenta on the menu, a typical Northern Italy plate, but there are also plenty of decidedly non-Italian offerings such as Wurstell mit Krout or pasta with Speck (Austrian bacon). So what's the reason for the split personality that we also noted in our breakfast? A hint can be found in the road signs. Bellow the Italian names you can always find the German version. Turns out that we are in some sort of "conquered territories". Till WW I, huge chunks of Northern Italy were actually Austrian territory. After the fall of Franz Josef's empire and the signing of the humilating surrender accords, these territories and their inhabitants were passed over to Italian rule as some sort of compensation for war damages. So it shouldn't be surprising to hear even the youngsters here speak Italian with a very heavy German accent and to this date, the area maintains a sort of political independence within Italy. The population is quite keen on maintaining their cultural identity through language, food and architecture, the last much more ornate and kitschy than that of Italy.

We press on towards Cortina d'Ampezzo, the area's biggest city that's located inside a wide and calm valley, but we are going to save our visit to the center for our return trip, as we intend to reach Austria before the day ends. We climb up Passo Tre Croci, by-passing giant Monte Cristalo from the south and then head north towards the Pusteria valley that separates the Dolomites from the Austrian Alps. We stop at San Candido for one last cup of Italian espresso, soon we'll enter Austria and the coffee quality is bound to suck. We sit to soak in the sun's rays in the city's central Piazza, right in front of a church with a pear shaped bell tower, a typical architectural style of the area. Soon after hitting the road again we cross the Austrian border. The intensity of the views calms down a bit and although the road is fast and flowing, it crosses through many villages with the accompanying 35 mph limit signs. The Austrian police seems quite aware of the popularity of the area amongst riders and every now and then, a trooper's car parked by the wayside reminds you that we are not in Italy and tolerance to speeding is nil. At the end of such an intense day, the relaxed ride imposed on us is not such a bad thing. After a few hours of breathtaking views, the flat green pastures are a welcome change.

We have almost reached our hotel for the night but at Kostach, another break is imposed on us. There is a huge parade on the village's main road and a cop has blocked all traffic. Dozens of riders have already taken their helmets off and chill out on the green grass just in front of the city hall. The parade itself turns out to be an interesting showcase of local culture. All the musicians and dancers wear costumes with bird feathers being used as hat decorations. After about half an hour of listening to Austria's Greatest Country Hits live, we're allowed to continue and end up in our beautiful hotel, The Gailtaler Hof. At the Hotel's entrance there's an East German two stroke on a stand, some kind of environmental sculpture while the roofed parking in the back is crammed with bikes. We haven't arrived here by chance. A German friend recommended checking the http://www.moho.at/ site before the trip. A few hotel owners in the area that are particularly bike friendly created it. The hoteliers of the moho web ring will welcome riders with particular care, can offer some discounts and make you feel good about actually not coming with a car. Even though I was a bit apprehensive about Austrian cuisine, especially when compared to Italian cuisine, our dinner in the hotel turns out to be excellent, ditto for the local wine while the strudel dessert was simply divine. Yep, these guys know a thing or two about apple pies.

Our detour north towards Austria is not motivated by an academic study in comparative cuisine science though. North of Lienz, there is another famous alpine road, famous at least with German speaking riders, the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse (The Alpine high road of the great Glockner, simple no?). The said Glockner is a huge glacier that resides in a valley which was totally inaccessible for many years. In an effort to supply some work to the war hit area during the 20's economical crisis, the Austrian government decided to build a road in order to attract motoring tourists. After a few years of hard digging in the rock and ice, the road was opened and now provides easy access to one of Europe's biggest glaciers. The investment paid off because nowadays, the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse attracts hundreds of thousands tourists per year who also pay a considerable toll to enter the road.
If you are staying in any of the moho hotels, don't forget to ask for the toll discount voucher. Although the ride in the Grossglockner Hochalpenstrasse turned out to be quite interesting, I must say that at the main scouting spot over the glacier, the setting was too touristy for my taste. Too many cars, too many crybabies, too many dogs looking for a convenient parked bike for a pee post. If you want to experience the area in peace, it's worth continuing further north on the road towards Edelweiss (guess that's where the Famous tour organizers got the name from). We are not so keen to continue all the way up for a simple reason. It's Sunday, there's a MOTO GP round and there's not much of a chance that any Austrian bar owner will put the race on the telly. So we must reach Italy by midday, because the Italians have much more appreciation for Valentino's antics. We head back south, cross the border back into Italy and start a mad search for a bar with a TV set.

After a few tries we conquer the lobby of a small hotel and watch the race while lunching on sandwiches and shouting obscenities at Gibernau. Back on the road, after Dobbiaco we head back south again, towards Cortina d'Ampezzo. The small road that leads to town is beautiful in its quietness and as we hit the outskirts of town we start searching for a hotel. After a few tries we find a nice and quiet place and set out to enjoy the pearl of the Dolomites. Cortina is indeed one beautiful town, you'll have to try very hard to find even one balcony that is not spilling over with colorful Geraniums in full bloom. The city's center is in full swing, plenty of posh shops geared towards rich skiers offer all the high-end labels. There are also beautiful pubs with quality beer and a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Very nice.

Our last day takes us west to Bolzano through the SS51, but instead of backtracking on our previous route, in Arabba, another big bikers hang out, we take the road towards Passo Gardena, encircling the Gruppo Sella mountains from north. Can't come up with to many complaints about the roads till now, but the descent from Passo Gardena towards the village of Selva, leaves me awe struck. The turns are completely three dimensional, flowing perfectly and the feeling is of piloting a glider towards a landing in the valley's basin with wide and slow zig-zags. What a nice desert. The Gardena valley takes us west, back to the A22 autostrada, right from where we came. That's it, it's almost over. In the valley the temperatures start to rise, making us miss the comforting coolness of the high passes. By the time we join the A22 we are sweating under too much insulation. A nice swim in a lake wont hurt us.

In Lago di Garda, Italy's largest lake, we leave the Venezia-Milano highway at the Sermione exit. The amazing beautiful medieval castle-city of Sermione sits on a long tongue that projects into the lake, at some points no wider than 100 yards. We find a nice beach and jump into the water with our underwear. Sorry, we didn't think we'd need any swimsuits in the Dolomites, that's my excuses to all the old Italian ladies we offended with our bad taste. We'll try to remember next time around.

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There are many natural treasures in the USA that few know about and even fewer have experienced. The Blue Ridge Parkway is one of these treasures. If you ride on two wheels, be it motorcycle or bicycle, you'd think you've died and gone to heaven.

The Parkway is 469 miles long, starting near Waynesboro, Virginia. It follows the Appalachian Mountain chain along the Blue Ridge Mountains, across the Black Mountains, and finally ends in the Great Smokies in North Carolina. This ride is a cyclist's dream come true. With over four hundred miles of two-lane twisties, spectacular mountain scenery and very little traffic, you can't believe you usually have the road to yourself. Commercial traffic is not allowed. You won't see a golden arch or convenience store on the parkway. As a matter of fact, they're no buildings at all except for a few tourist info centers and historical sites. Usually down a beaten path.

Need gas? You'd better plan ahead. You have to get off the parkway and sometimes travel ten to twenty miles to find some. This is not as bad as you think as the roads leading to the parkway are usually more radical than the parkway itself. Most of these roads are without posted speed limits. I guess the limit is proportionate to how big a set you got. As for the parkway itself, the speed limit is 45mph all the way, and in most cases that's fast enough.

The scenery is spectacular. You start off in the foothills in Virginia, but once you hit North Carolina, it's all mountains. There are numerous overlooks where you can turn off, take a break, enjoy the scenery, and occasionally hope to lose Aunt Mable and Uncle Jeb, who are out for a Sunday drive. It's bound to happen.

Some places of interest you might want to detour to are Mt. Mitchell State Park, which is the highest point east of the Mississippi, Linville Falls and Grandfather Mountain. One of the most interesting detours is around Grandfather Mountain. It's called the Linn Cove Viaduct. This is a true engineering marvel. It was built connected to the mountain, but it's not actually part of the mountain. It's literally a ride in the sky. It is a very unique experience, to say the least. Probably the most known detour, especially to cyclists, is a little stretch of road know as `The Dragon', or officially, Deals Gap. The Dragon is internationally famous for its 318 curves in just 11 miles. (Note: beware of the occasional idiot using up both lanes trying to beat the Dragon's record.) Come back to MO for more on Deals Gap in the near future.

If it sounds like I think the Blue Ridge Parkway is the greatest ride east of the Mississippi, I do. The parkway is a special place for me. After giving up riding for a lot of years, I didn't think I would ever own another motorcycle again. A few years ago I moved to North Carolina, and decided to take a vacation in the mountains. I happened to rent a cabin on one of those great roads leading to the parkway. Rode the parkway everywhere I went that week, fell in love, and thought the only thing that could be better than this would be riding these roads on a bike. A year later I bought another bike, and try to go back every chance I get.

Everyone has their own personal Mecca, a place to get away from the traffic, the noise, and the craziness of everyday life. You can guess where mine is.

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The 101-mile Magruder Corridor Road is a primitive dirt road that serves as the only passage for motorized vehicles through the largest wilderness area in the lower 48 US States. The Frank Church River of No Return/Selway Bitterroot Wilderness is situated along the Idaho-Montana border just north of the 45th parallel. At almost 5 million acres this is a stretch of contiguous wilderness almost the size of New Jersey. The Magruder Road follows an old path used by the Nez Perce Indians to move seasonally from the Camas Prairie in Idaho to the Bitterroot valley in Montana. After the arrival of European settlers, miners used this path during a brief post-Civil War gold rush in north-central Idaho. The present road was constructed by the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) during the 1930's and has not changed in any significant manner since then. I like to start from Shoup, Idaho on the Salmon River, ride north over the mountains to Alta, Montana and pick up the trail at the West Fork Ranger Station. From there the road runs 101 miles almost due west traversing some of the most breathtaking wilderness anywhere. The trail ends near the west boundary of the wilderness area at Elk City, Idaho. Traveled in this fashion the ride is a total of about 150 miles of mostly dirt road. Since the road is largely hard-packed dirt you can fly on a dirtbike (I use my XR600R and hard knobbies) but I've encountered all manner of big-bore dual sports, UJM's and even a plush BMW R1150GS on the way back over on one day (although the owner seemed concerned about the amount of dust on his tank bra). You can ride almost any motorcycle with sufficient ground clearance over the route with little difficulty as long as you are careful not to override your tires in the numerous switchbacks.

While traversing this route you will have chances to encounter a variety of wildlife: moose, elk, deer, bighorn sheep, dall sheep, black bear, eagles, and mountain lions, to name a few. The route traverses the headwaters of several wilderness rivers and climbs over three spectacular passes (one of which, oddly, is a paved supermotard heaven for 12 miles!). What you will not encounter are other roads, any airplanes flying overhead, many other people, or any gas should you run out (from my experience an XR600R makes a piss-poor wheelbarrow when it's out of fuel). My time for the round trip is about 12 hours with an overnight in Elk City.

If you are out touring this summer and pass through Northern Idaho or Western Montana and have a yen for a relatively easy but spectacular offroad adventure I highly recommend the Magruder Corridor Road. You'll be chased by moose, see scenery that'll burn your eyes out and worry about your gas situation but you'll not be disappointed over the adventure.

Me - I'm back on the road!

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We begin our travels at the Station House Cafe in Point Reyes Station. A clean, crisp, country-styled interior creates a warm and rustic ambiance without resorting to the all-too-typical antique farm implement and decapitated moose head cliches. There are a wide variety of seating options aside from the main dining area, including a 7-seat marble-top lunch counter and a handsome bar for evening visitors, as well as a small, more formal, dining room in back. A delightful outdoor patio features gazebo-style trellis work with faux Chinese lanterns hanging above the tables, while a flowing fountain and flowering shrubbery complete the Garden of Eden-like atmosphere. Not exactly Hooters, but it'll have to do.

The service was simply outstanding. My waitress, Kimberly, was singularly friendly and attentive. For instance, she recommended that I try a glass of their fresh squeezed orange juice that was particularly good that morning. When I demurred in favor of coffee, she maternally insisted that I enjoy a glass of OJ on the house. In fact, she was right, it was fantastic and not to be missed. Thanks Mom, errr... Kimberly.

For breakfast, I enjoyed a large Belgian-style waffle with toasted walnuts baked into the batter that cost $7. A large scoop of butter laced with sugar and cinnamon garnished the center and soon melted once spread. It had been years since I tasted pure maple syrup ($1.50 extra but worth it). Wow, what a difference! None of the thick, corn syrup consistency or artificial sweetness of that stuff I buy at home with the blue and white stripes around the middle.

I accompanied the waffle with a pair of eggs, scrambled, which came out fluffy, omelette-style. The coffee was delicious too and Kimberly went above and beyond once again by returning unasked with a cup of freshly made, organic whipped cream to substitute for milk. Not only was the whipped cream brilliant in the coffee, but it was even better on the waffle. What a sublime breakfast, and dang, what a waitress! I got more TLC from Kimberly in one hour than I got from my ex-wife in five years. Which, of course, would have served as a far more valuable insight five years ago.

The Station House Cafe also serves lunch and dinner, and I would consider the prices to be very reasonable for a seafood-oriented menu. In addition to quality sandwich and salad fare, dinner entres such as Niman lamb shank in red wine sauce ($15.75) and a tarragon cream based oyster stew ($12.75) are just a few samples from an extensive menu.

Although you probably won't want to leave the cafe continue north on Route 1. Be aware that as Route 1 meets Pt. Reyes-

Petaluma Rd., there is a sinister decreasing radius sweeper that is easy to misjudge. It would be a really impressive optical illusion except that it's not an illusion. Another mile brings you to the shoreline and the rider's delight of the pristine, serpentine, two-lane road that parallels Tomales Bay. Best of all, there is nary a straight section to be found as you hug the contours of the waterline, and it would be easy to forget that you have more than three gears after awhile.

While a few blind curves will keep you on your toes, most corners allow for generous sight lines and while the lack of a shoulder trims the margin for error, the excellent surface conditions encourage you to explore your tires' limits. In my informed opinion, the greatest reward can be found by modifying your tack periodically between aggressive riding and passive cruising, in order to appreciate all of the treasures that this road has to offer. Attacking the swooping curves will be rewarded with a rhythmic, flowing groove of lefts and rights. Slowing to a leisurely pace you will find yourself admiring the serenity of the untroubled waters and forested hills across the shore.

Tame your need for speed as you pass through the town of Marshall. Best to show the local folk some respect, as well as the canopied stand of thick tall trees that line the borders of the twisting asphalt, and in my case, a nearby trio of grazing deer. Twelve miles into your journey, the road bends inland, leaving the bay in your rear view mirror as it bobs and weaves, following a ravine between green hills towards the town of Tomales.

Here, you'll turn east onto Tomales-Petaluma Road. While this is a predominantly straight two-lane country road, cow pastures and small homesteads offer a dramatic change of scenery from the coastal route. If you've been riding a sportbike, relax, it's finally safe to get out of your tuck for awhile, straighten up and stretch a few limbs. If you've been touring two-up on a cruiser, now is the time to put `er into 5th gear, lean back, and whisper some sweet nothings into your sweetheart's ear.

Five miles ahead you'll reach the turnoff for Chilleno Valley Road and head south as you meander through a region that might easily be mistaken for Montana (at least by someone like me who's never actually been to Montana). Despite the fact that I rode this route on a Saturday, traffic wasn't a concern, and the two-laner offers occasional passing zones, a cherished commodity to any biker. Mild bends with 45 mph speed limits can be taken much faster if you prefer to zip through this section to the next twisty bits, as blind curves are few and far between and stray cattle are easily spotted from a distance.

After 10 miles you'll T-bone with Wilson Hill Road and head south. This short road offers gentle left-right bends up and over the valley hills with lovely elevated views of the tranquil pastures below. It's hard to imagine in the midst of this cruiser's valley paradise that just a few miles back, you were snaking through a sport bike rider's coastal fantasyland. If you're tempted to stop, be aware that the dirt shoulders were soft from rain and not as friendly as they looked.

Descending towards the edge of the open pastures where forested hills frame the valley, you'll come to a turnoff at Hicks Valley Rd. where you take a left and continue south along this two-laner. A sign warning of twisty roads fails to deliver on the usual thrills it denotes. You would have to destroy the local speed limits to add a fear factor to this stretch. Nonetheless, the road winds along at a 3rd gear pace, and climbs in elevation, offering a sense of drama as you reach the hill's peak and a well-placed turnoff to allow for scenery appreciation.

Three miles later, you'll reach a T-bone with Pt. Reyes-Petaluma Road, where you'll turn west towards the coast to complete your loop. This is a main road that offers smooth gliding passages through forested hills. Surface conditions could have been better, but a ribbon-like canyon pass can be taken at a brisk pace, and offers a moment of pure touring satisfaction as you emerge to a view of the Nicasio Reservoir and surrounding valley. It gets better though, as you cross over a bridge that spans the reservoir and plunges you into a series of consistent-radius 45 mph sweepers that allow for an aggressive lean-angle if you're feeling your oats.

Two miles past the bridge, be sure to turn right at the intersection to remain on Pt. Reyes -Petaluma Rd heading west. You can feel the air temperature cooling as mild curves and sweepers guide you through a tree-lined valley back towards the bay and a T-bone at Route 1. Turn left, heading south towards Point Reyes, and follow it about a mile back to the Station House Cafe. This route took me a little over two hours, so if your timing is just right, your appetite will be returning just in time for a cup of that oyster stew and a roast beef sandwich. The perfect ending to your surf and turf cruise through West Marin County.



Station House Cafe
11180 State Route One
Point Reyes Station, CA 94956
415-663-1515
Sun-Th 8:00am - 9:00pm
Fri-Sat 8:00am - 10:00pm
Credit cards accepted
Private dining room available for large groups with reservation
Live entertainment Fri-Sun evenings
Distance: 50 miles
Time: 2 hours plus meal

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...one motorcycle milestone that is rarely seen in other lists but was included among UK crew's must-haves, was another Italian exotic.

But they had found one, rather I had found one for their cameras. In the past, I've found other things of interest for the Brits, both cars and bikes, which ended up on English television, and we all know the BBC makes the world's best tube. In any case, they called me as they had seen a motorcycle history book I had written and figured I could rustle up some photogenic motorcycles for their program. For instance, did I know anything about the Moto Guzzi V-8? Well, I said, not that much, but I do know where one is, here in L.A. about ten minutes from my apartment. I think they dropped the phone. And so it came to pass that I brought the crew over to a small garage with big history, a space analogous to a neutron star so compacted is it with precious two wheeled metal, a dream come true garage that belongs to L.A.historian/restorer/collector/bonvivant Jeff Gilbert, a fellow who made his own top ten list something more than just wishful thinking. Through dint of very hard work and perseverance, he made it all come to pass. He now has his top ten... including the near mythical Guzzi V-8. How that came to pass, as they say, is another story. We'll delve into all that, but first a bit of background... the events that culminated into what turned out to be Moto Guzzi's last great grasp at greatness.

The image of the Moto Guzzi, at least until recently, was of lumpy looking cruisers notable for their durability. For a while they were even the choice of mounts for the California Highway Patrol. In Europe, it's a different story altogether. Moto Guzzi literally put its native country on wheels, sold like hot pasta, and brought many a world championship home to its origins along beautiful Lake Como in northern Italy.

The backdrop was WWI, a world conflagration touted to end all conflagrations. In this first one, Italy was on the side of the good guys. Defending the country were two pilots Giorgi Parodi and Giovanni Ravelli who depended on a gifted mechanic named Carlo Guzzi to keep their aircraft mechanically fit. While his friends were flying, Guzzi's thoughts were more earthbound; he dreamed of the ultimate motorcycle. Ravelli, who also was a successful motorcycle racer, looked at Guzzi's designs, and gave them a thumbs up. Unfortunately, Ravelli would never ride on one of Carlo's dream machines. He would fall from the sky in combat.

Moto Guzzi literally put its native country on wheels, sold like hot pasta, and brought many a world championship home to its origins along beautiful Lake Como in northern Italy.

After hostilities abated in 1918, Guzzi and Parodi went to work building what they initially called the G&P motorcycle, obviously named after themselves. The now familiar eagle in flight logo was chosen in homage to their fallen comrade. Borrowing some lira from his deep-pockets dad, Parodi bankrolled the first prototypes. They were going where no Italians had gone before, since Italy basically produced no motorcycles plus had little if any export. However, G&P plugged on.

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After a nail-biting final we now know who has the coolest Monster.

Cupertino, CA ~ Throughout the winter, Ducati searched the country for the coolest Monster in North America. Winning Monsters from eight different IMS shows were selected for the grand finale on March 11th, in Daytona, along with four wildcard bikes that were so exceptional they warranted inclusion.

A celebrity panel of judges including editors from Moto-Euro Magazine, Cycle News, the Desmodromiclub of Rome, Neil Hodgson and Eric Bostrom from Team Ducati Austin and Ducati CEO Michael Lock.

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I began my motorcycle riding life in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, nearly 35 years ago. I believe it is fair to say that I cut my motorcycling teeth on mountain passes, and in the ensuing years I managed to ride (I believe) every single paved pass in the Rockies at least once, including those in Canada. During this same time I also managed to ride most of the best passes in the Sierras, Adirondacks, the Great Smokies and several other, smaller mountain ranges here in the US, plus some of those in Africa, Asia and South America. Yet, somehow, the legendary motorcycle Nirvana of the Alps eluded me. Three times in 15 years I made plans to ride through the Alps, and three times something happened in either my personal life or on the national scene (like 9/11), to force the cancellation of my trips.

At 56 years old, I began to think that perhaps it just wasn't meant to be-and then the call came from Rob Beach.

Rob said he couldn't help but notice that of virtually all of the better-known motorcycle journalists in the world, I alone had never participated in one of Beach's Alpine tours. While I personally questioned whether I really belonged in the "better-known" category of moto-journalists, I wasn't about to let that stop me from considering Rob's most generous offer. If I could arrange my own transportation to and from Germany, and procure my own motorcycle to ride, along with insurance, etc., he would "comp" the cost of the tour itself, with no strings attached. Of course I'm no amateur at this, and I know that Rob's motive was his hope that I would write about his tour in one or more of the magazines I write for, but still I appreciated the fact that he placed no specific publication demands on me.

A quick check showed that though I didn't have quite enough frequent flier miles to make the trip, all of my miles plus another $600 would get me to Munich. And an e-mail to BMW's press department was responded to almost immediately. They would be happy to loan me a "press bike" from their Munich fleet for the trip. Everything looked good, and then got even better when I found that my old friend and riding partner, Marc Souliere from Canada, was booked for the same trip, so we could share motel rooms and keep costs down even more.

The tour I chose to participate in was Beach's "Classic Alpine Adventure," a 13-day jaunt through Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Northern Italy. This was the tour I had read so much about in John Hermann's excellent book,

"Motorcycle Journeys Through the Alps," which is considered by many to be the bible of Alpine motorcycle touring.

Robert and Elizabeth Beach have been running organized tours of the Alps for over 30 years, starting in 1972, and to date have led nearly 5,000 riders on more than 300 Alpine adventures. These days the senior Beachs are semi-retired, but the Alpine tours are still led by their son, Rob Beach, who literally grew up (though some might argue that Rob never quite really "grew up") riding these fabled mountains with his parents. With that kind of history behind the company, I figured I could hardly go wrong.

At first I thought that I would try to take a one-week tour, as I didn't know if I could really spare the time for a two-week trip, but on checking, I found that unlike most other tour companies, Beach didn't offer anything shorter than two weeks in the Alps. Later, when talking to Rob Beach about this, I found that they had long-ago considered offering shorter tours, and often had requests from their clients for a shorter tour, but firmly believed that anything less than two weeks simply didn't "work."

As Rob himself put it: "Vacation time is your personal time-time for attitude adjustment and time to relax and reorient yourself with the ideas and things which are important in your life. Over the years, we have found that it takes most people a week to forget the pressures of work, to adjust to the local time, and to understand the ebb and flow of traffic and the road systems of Europe. With only a seven-day vacation, one is returning home just as he begins to find himself in sync. Therefore, all of our tours are two weeks or longer so that our participants can really enjoy the experience, unfettered by internal stress or outside pressures."

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