Thursday, February 28, 2013

Saying Goodbye to an Old Motorcycle

2004 Yamaha Road Star
Bittersweet filled me as I stood on the sidewalk watching her fly away with her new guy. All I could do was think of the good times we had and feel hopeful that she's destined for a better life.

A 2004 Yamaha Road Star Silverado.

I bought her brand new after struggling between that and a Harley-Davidson Road King. Both are comparable bikes. I bought the Yamaha for its larger displacement, a very loyal following with lots of aftermarket support, and a smaller price tag. It also requires fewer repairs.

We rode thousands of miles from home putting on tens of thousands of miles.  There were times when we were several states away from our starting point, in the middle of wilderness, with only each other to rely on.

It saddened me to see her sitting in the garage after I had bought a second motorcycle. A 2005 Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Ultra Classic. I bought that because my ex-wife was never comfortable on the Road Star despite the many different seats and foot rest combinations I had tried. The Electra Glide was definitely comfortable for me as well, and I ended up putting on double the miles on it. But it wasn't when I bought Blackbird, a 2006 Honda ST1300, that I never got on the Road Star again.

I must have known what it felt to be abandoned for a younger, faster bike. I could imagine each time I walked into the garage, the Road Star would feel anticipation, hoping to spend an afternoon with me. And that excitement must have been killed when it saw me put the key into Blackbird. After a couple of years of doing this, the Road Star went numb. It didn't care anymore but to sulk into a dark, lonely acceptance.

But it managed to take on some new life when Sash started riding for the first time. However, the Road Star is just much too heavy for her. Sash needed something smaller to learn with.

riding a motorcycle in the city

So, I sold her off to a new owner yesterday. I should have done that long ago, but I guess I kept convincing myself that I would fix her back up, customize her out, and she'd become my little bar-hopper. I just never did.

And I still kick myself for selling that 1979 Kawasaki KZ400.  I still wish I had that bike.  So, maybe I was worried that I would kick myself for selling the Road Star.

I heard her growl with joy as her new owner cranked the throttle a few times.  Ready to embark on a chapter in her life, she took off and turned the corner towards a new start on life.

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Friday, February 22, 2013

Freedom Is When You Break the Law

motorcycle highway 395
And then, there's the freedom myth.

How many times have you heard a motorcycle rider describe riding as a feeling of freedom?  How much freedom is there in riding a motorcycle?

But freedom is not something you get from something else.  It's something that's found within us.  When freedom is given to you, you're simply dependent.  It's like saying you are "wealthy" because someone gave you money.  But what happens when that money runs out, and that someone refuses to give you more?  Were you ever wealthy at all?

By the same token, what if government passed a new law that took away another piece of your freedom?  Were ever really free in the first place?

But what if you decided to break that law and did it anyways?  Well, now you're free!

Who is more free, the person running wild in an open field, or the person taking a sledgehammer to a prison wall?

It's the person who takes control of his own freedom who is free.  You are not free when someone else controls your freedom.

I myself have described riding a motorcycle as a feeling of freedom.  But technically, it isn't really freedom at all.  It's a perceived freedom.  I have to hold a special drivers license to ride a motorcycle.  I have to wear helmet.  I can't have loud pipes.

There's actually more freedom in driving a car.

But what if I didn't have that special license, decided not to wear a helmet, and removed the baffles from my exhaust, and rode my motorcycle anyway?  Now I'm free.

Most of us will be apprehended by the police if we did that.  But that's only because most of us don't have the resolve nor the resources to keep them away.  But if we did?  What if we had the smarts, the money, and the determination to break every law for the rest of our lives and never get caught?  Doesn't that make us free?

Maybe you would argue that breaking every law for the rest of our lives will burden us with having to run and hide from police.  But aren't we already burdened for the rest of our lives having to stifle our desires by threat of the police?

If you chose to remain a law abiding citizen for the rest of your life, then aren't you really just another sheep in the flock who will forever be forgotten?

It's always the rebels and the revolutionaries who are remembered.  And it's always they who get to enjoy the freedom.

So, how much freedom is there in riding a motorcycle?

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Monday, February 18, 2013

Taking a 6-Month Motorcycle Trip

You can't get lost if you don't have a destination.

As announced today on eBikerLeather, Sash and I are taking a 6-month motorcycle trip across USA and Canada, beginning in April. eBikerLeather is a sponsor, providing us with road gear.

We're going to move out of our apartment in San Diego, put everything into storage, and then ride homeless. We're taking our laptops because we still have our respective e-businesses to run. I'm taking just a couple changes of clothes, I think she is too. Aside from that, not much else. I figure if we need anything, we can stop at a store somewhere.

We have no destination in mind. We have no route. We have no expectations other than to pull into a city and stay there for a week to see all the sights. Then, pick another city that sounds good and ride there.

It took a lot of convincing to get Sash to limit her travel wardrobe to just a couple sets. She had been trying to find a way to take more. So, I told her that when we pull into a city, we'll find a thrift store and she can buy more clothes. Then when we leave town, we'll donate them back.

The thing about having an expectation is that you rarely get to see it. So when you don't see it, you're disappointed. It just seems to make sense that people will be a lot happier if they don't expect anything. So that's why we're not creating a plan.

For me, the real fun about this trip is paring down my possessions to just a couple set of clothes, a motorcycle, and a laptop. Seems like I could live forever that way.

This has actually been a dream of mine going back to 2003, when I quit my regular job and started Clear Digital Media, a company that owns and operates some 50+ websites including this one.  After becoming my own boss and running my business from the cloud, the idea seemed doable.

Sash's business is run from the cloud as well.  She does consulting on sales, marketing, public relations, blogging, and social media.

In a way, this "motorcycle bohemia" we're embarking on is to demonstrate that it's possible.

And if it is possible, then why limit it to six months?

Perhaps, that's a question I'll ponder when I get there.

We'll be launching a separate blog to document the trip. Motorcycle Philosophy will continue to publish my personal thoughts about life on the road, and Sash Mouth will continue to document her thoughts as well.

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Sunday, February 17, 2013

Jacumba, CA, Between Past and Present

welcome to jacumba signThere's almost of sense of invasion flooding my thoughts, a battle is about to begin, a tug-of-war pulling on my conscience.

Jacumba, CA never seemed to forgive my arrival the previous times I've passed along Old Highway 80. Its shadows grow much too long for a town that still manages to support a few eateries and a functioning a post office. The ghosts here seem to outnumber the living, but its not their eyes that I feel watching me. The world is so small here, and time moves by so slowly, that not even a stranger like myself can escape the poison of small town chatter.

Otherwise, Jacumba doesn't give me much reason to stop. Despite its storied history, memories of neon nightlife, and old photos of Hollywood elite bathing in the medicinal waters of its natural hot spring, it's just a little town that could get along fine without my money or even the next person's. It's almost as if they'd be happy to see more outsiders, yet at the same time, wouldn't raise a finger to help make it happen. Jacumba is just simply there, making no effort to help itself, but seemingly waiting for someone to help it.

Sash, on the other hand, sees something else.

A living, feeling soul nursing a hurt that never healed, it's the emptiness and loss felt by a town that had all but been wiped off the map.  The pain of abandonment, after the new Interstate routed traffic away from Old Highway 80, filled it with the shame of dilapidated shacks, the self-pity of failed business ideas, and created an angry little child demanding the love it knows it deserves.  Even towns have souls with wounds to suffer.

"Where do you think all these flies are coming from?" one guy said, seated in a chair outside of the local restaurant.

Sash and I didn't answer, but we could see them flying everywhere, and even felt them hitting our helmets when we pulled into town. We continued to eat lunch on the tables outside.

"It's because it's getting warmer now", another guy answered, who was seated some 20 feet away.

"I mean what are these?" the other guy continued.  "I've never seen flies like these!"

His question seemed to go unanswered.  It's little stuff like flies that seem to make news in a town with little else.

"What's that old building across the street?" Sash asked one of the guys, pointing her finger at a concrete building whose roof had collapsed long ago.

"That's where they had the original spa", a guy answered.

"When was it built?"

"1930s".

jacumba, ca past and present

There's still a few locals in Jacumba that remember the heyday of long ago, but otherwise the town today is largely a sunken ship transformed into a reef, sustaining a few hundred folks seeking refuge from the competitive ills of metropolitan mania. Maybe they were born into a place like Jacumba and don't know how to survive elsewhere. Maybe they tried their luck in the concrete jungles of corporate America but found themselves pushed off to the edges, left to fight for whatever scraps fell their way.

I often hear people say that they love the peace and quiet of a small country town, but I wonder if its because they unconsciously feel something comforting in its soul. I wonder if the rusted sign of an abandoned gas station, or the boarded up windows of an old general store, reflect the deeper emotions kept locked up inside them.

It's as if the hurt attracts more hurt, anger attracts more anger, creating a cycle that continues itself generation after generation. Maybe I never wanted to stop in Jacumba for those reasons. Maybe I don't want to admit to myself that I belong in a place like this. Perhaps I'm not quite ready to stop running.

motorcycles jacumba, ca

Old Highway 80 is like the forgotten sibling of Old Route 66.  One of the original "plank roads" of the 1920s, it had been a two-lane highway that connected San Diego with Yuma and stretched all the way to the Georgia coast.  It meandered through the hills and valleys of eastern San Diego County, providing financial support for little towns like Descanso, Boulevard, and Jacumba.

Jacumba was blessed to have a hot mineral spring nearby.  In the 1920s and '30s, it attracted the biggest Hollywood celebrities, many of whom made Jacumba their top destination for relaxation.  But being located so far south, along the border with Mexico, it couldn't compete with rival hot springs located further north.  Business began to decline.  By the time Interstate 8 opened up, traffic along Old Highway 80 fell to a trickle, and Jacumba dried up.

But it's not all dead yet.

motorcycle reflection

The proprietor of Mountain Sage Market, the town's only store and deli, seemed all too happy to make us a sandwich and salad. His business seems to be the magnet that defines the center of the city, attracting everyone including the out-of-towners.

One lady walked in announcing that she was ready to go sober starting tomorrow, beaming as if she had found Jesus and finally discovered the light, though she came in to buy one last supply of beer for the night.

Another guy was called to a car by his mother who yelled at him to stop hanging around "those tweakers".

A woman led her children past our motorcycles, and one of them saw the stickers on Sash's helmet saying, "that must be a girl's helmet".

There was even one shy little girl who flirted with Sash at the deli counter, wearing a fuzzy giraffe hoodie, holding the hand of a woman with some kind of gang insignia tattooed to her chest.

jacumba, ca old building

Little bursts of light sometimes come from the most unlikely of places.  But way out in the fringes of civilization, where few ever care to go, the shadows seems to grow too long.

I can't help thinking that a place like Jacumba might become my home someday.  There could be a time when I'm too tired and weak for the 24/7 madness that is downtown corporate America.  When I can't stand the sirens, the weekend partiers, and the roar of jet planes taking off at 6:00am, maybe this is the place where I'll hide, nestled beneath of a canopy of oaks and protected by a pack of rescued pitbulls.

But I also can't helping thinking that Jacumba could grow into a more vibrant city if it could only break free from the ghosts of its memories. The only thing holding it back are the folks who seem to relish the loneliness and hurt.  I wonder if they'd resist changes that brought in more visitors, more traffic, more noise.  The feelings of abandonment, the pain of humiliation, seems well fed in the remnants of a forgotten town.  The few glimmers of hope radiating from a handful of residents are just enough to leave visitors with a reason to return.

old 7up signjacumba hot springs hotelpay telephone

jacumba, ca gas station


jacumba, ca gas station



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Friday, February 8, 2013

For the Beer and Chaos

She scrunched her eyebrows and made a serious face, as her lips curled outward, baring her teeth. Then, bending her knees slightly, almost as if to mimic being seated on a motorcycle, she held out her right arm in a fist, cocking it upwards.

"Rrrrrraaahhhh!" she screeched out, showing me her racing impression, then laughing afterwards.

The twenty-something year old girl I met in a bar in downtown San Diego the other night, who seemed so much in love with the motorcycling lifestyle, to the point of being sexually aroused, wanted to tell me about her passion for riding.

riding a motorcycle into twisties

"I have a Ducati 900SS in the garage", she told me with eyes wide open and mouth brimming with excitement. "But the bearings are shot", she continued, as her facial expression drooped into a more humbling  but cute, disappointment.

"I guess you're going to have to get it fixed", I replied, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah, if I only had the money."



On twisted roads I tend to forget my troubles as my mind focuses on the turns.  I would enter from the outside portion of the lane, and then dart towards the inside as I accelerated on my way out.  The motorcycle was like gold to me.  It was all that really mattered to me.  Just me and my bike.  

Blackbird doesn't question where we're headed. She doesn't care how fast or slow.  She's already well aware of the respect I have for her and seems content to leave it at that.  She already understands she can't go anywhere without me, and that I can't go anywhere without her.


riding motorcycle into curves

And I can't really see what lies on the other end of the curve.  I can only let my mind speculate on what the road will reveal.  I don't want to set any expectations for fear that I'll be disappointed where I'll end up.  I don't want to tell myself that I've been down this road a hundred times because I don't want the act of running away to become boring.  I want the motorcycle to make me feel alive.

It's often said that "it's not about the destination but the journey."

But even today in my 40s it feels like I'm still looking for something more.  The more I keep running away, the more I want to find a place to belong.  The more I settle into a place, the more I want to leave it behind.  Yet as long as I'm on the motorcycle, I feel better about things.


I guess it's the anticipation of finding something new over the crest that keeps me hoping and dreaming.  It's not knowing what lies on the other side that makes me want to venture down the road.  Maybe it's just finding something new about myself that inspires me to ride on.

Even if I've already been there a hundred times, there's still that small chance something new will happen, that some additional variable will get thrown into the mix, setting off a chain of events carrying me away to some place I had never expected.  That's what keeps me going, the hope of discovery.


I don't necessarily know if I'm heading in the right direction, or if I've gone completely off-track, but it doesn't matter.  I just want to bypass the muck and clutter, get past the objects in my way, and move out into that wide, open road where I can see for miles and miles.  As long as I know the possibilities are endless, it feels as if my life will last forever.

What causes a guy like me to think this way?  Why don't I want to put down roots like other men?  Will I ever just stay put and build a lasting legacy?  Somehow, motorcycles seem intended for souls like mine who just want to drift along the highways in search of something they'll never find.

Sometimes, it's not even about the journey, but the quest itself.


At the end of the day I'm still back at a building I call "home".  And I'm not even sure why I bother to have a television, or a couch, or even my own set of bath towels.  It's just more shit I can't tie down with bungee cords.  Yet somehow, I do this to myself, remaining grounded to a street address, and then looking out the window dreaming about that other road I passed by.

Belonging seems just a crutch we use to feel safe from the external.  Whatever it is that we seek to hold on to, is just a way to comfort our insides.  The more belongings we bring in, the more comfort we get.

In the way she licked her lips and focused her eyes at me, I could see her anticipation of jostling a tale of adventure from my book of motorcycle travels.  She wanted to feel the shivers down her back of two-wheeled tales.  But it wasn't to be.  I just wasn't interested in entertaining this young gal.  I was already emotionally and intellectually drained from the day.  I was just there for the beer and chaos.

But that's what Sash does for me.  She adds the excitement.  She steps in and breathes life into an otherwise lifeless world.  I don't know yet if that's enough to keep me from exploring, searching, and dreaming.  Why she bothers to hang around someone who can't seem to feel comfortable is beyond me.  But if she wants to ride with me, she's more than welcome.

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Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Salmon Glacier Road, British Columbia

salmon glacier road
There are perhaps a million miles of dirt and gravel road crisscrossing the State of Alaska. All you have to do is pick one and you'll likely end up with an experience you'll remember forever.

With that being said, a motorcyclist could never have a bad time riding their bike across The Last Frontier.

Salmon Glacier Road offers spectacular views of Salmon Glacier, one of the largest glaciers in all of North America, along with beautiful vistas of Salmon River and Fish Creek, and if you manage to get there in July, bears chomping up salmon.

During my ride into Alaska back in June & July of 2010, I stopped into the town of Hyder, AK, located along the southern tip of the Alaska Panhandle, about a 100 miles north of Prince Rupert, BC. Boasting a population of 87 (according to the 2010 census), Hyder is largely a village that attracts motorcyclists making their way up the famed Stewart-Cassiar Highway.

When one enters into Hyder, you get the sense you're entering some kind of lawless town, absent of police, where anything and everything goes. And guess what? That's absolutely what it is.

Except in the three days and two nights I spent there, I didn't encounter any violence. Quite the contrary, everyone was as friendly as they could be. After all, I was their target demographic, a motorcyclist, with plenty of money to spend, and a blog with which I could tell the rest of the world.

I pitched my tent in the back of the Sealaska Inn, what apparently is the town's social gathering, where locals bought me free beer and challenged me to games of pool. A karaoke jockey sang out country songs from the 1970s as I sat at a bar chatting with a few other riders who also happened to be there. The few of the locals invited me to stay for the Summer Solstice party, which I understood to be quite a rave, featuring a full sized roasted pig, home brewed beer, plenty of marijuana, and watermelon trucked in from North Carolina. Yeah, there's actually an old guy who trucks it in each year just to party with these folks.

But Hyder's main attraction is Salmon Glacier, a massive formation of ancient ice that sits about 20 miles north of town, just over the Canadian border in British Columbia.

During the warmer months, the glacial ice begins to melt, causing the Salmon River to surge as much as four feet, allowing salmon to swim up from Portland Canal.

To get there, you take a gravel road that starts in Hyder and follows the river north into the Alaska Boundary Range, a range of mountains at the northern portion of the greater Coastal Mountains that run all the way up the coast of British Columbia. This road is known as "Hyder Road" within the town limits, and then becomes "Salmon Glacier Road" once you leave town. On Google Maps, it's denoted as "NF-88".


I took this road riding my Honda ST1300. Over gravel and dirt, with its street tires (Michelin Pilot Road 2), the ST handled pretty well despite a few pockets of mushy gravel, hard-packed washboard, and occasional drifts in the tighter S-turns. It probably would have been safer on an adventure bike with appropriate tread, but in Alaska it's almost impossible to remain entirely on pavement.

Along the way, just at the edge of Hyder town limits, stop at the Fish Creek Spawning Beds. It's actually a bear viewing area. In the month of July, just as the salmon are running up stream, black bear and grizzly bear walk into the Salmon River to feast. The National Forest Service built a viewing deck where you can safely watch the bears. Unfortunately, I didn't see any salmon or bears.

You'll also find plenty of waterfalls along the side of the road, which you could easily strip down naked and bask in the modest Summer temperatures. There's hardly anyone else traveling up this road, and if they are, it's all motorcycle riders.

salmon glacier road

salmon river alaskasalmon glacier

salmon glacier

salmon glacier by motorcyclejuniper shrub

At the summit, there's a viewpoint for Salmon Glacier. There's about a 15-degree F temperature drop here. The scenery is stunning.

The absolute quiet, except for an occasional breeze rustling past my ears, combined with the sight of a gigantic formation of ice tens of thousands of years old, might make one feel as if they've ascended to some mythological shrine of a Greek God high upon Mt. Olympus. It seems to remind you of how far you've traveled and gives you a sense of accomplishment.

And that's a big part of what riding to Alaska is anyway, an accomplishment.

All in all, I spent two nights in Hyder. I couldn't stay for the Summer Solstice party, and I really wish I could. My schedule just wouldn't allow it.

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Saturday, February 2, 2013

The Coronado Trail, US 191 Arizona

coronado trail
When one thinks of the greatest roads for motorcycling in the United States, names like "Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway", "Tail of the Dragon", and "Bear Tooth Pass" usually surface to the top.

But rarely does "Coronado Trail" ever get mentioned.

Stretching from Clifton, AZ in the south to Springerville, AZ in the north, the Coronado Trail offers 123 miles of twisted two-lane highway running through the Apache National Forest. There are over 400 switchbacks along the way and very little civilization to speak of. Because the road gets so twisted, and takes such a long time for cars to get through, there's very little traffic. According to the AZ State Highway Department, cars on this road are spaced an average of 19 minutes apart.

For motorcyclists, this translates into tons of hard-leaning fun with barely any traffic to get in your way.

The Federal Highway Administration considers this drive to be the curviest road in the nation, offering everything from wide sweepers to 10mph switchbacks. There's a 6000 foot elevation change from the Upper Sonoran Desert to the alpine meadows of the White Mountains. Cell phone coverage is pretty much nil, and the only gas along the way is at Hannagan Meadow, about half-way through the route, as well as the town of Alpine, just further north.


Because of the volume of twisties and no biker bar to be found, many motorcyclists won't even bother riding this.

Officially, the Coronado Trail is part of US Route 191, which stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian. Specifically within Arizona, it had been previously designated as US Route 666.

The Coronado Trail roughly follows the same route taken by Spanish explorer Francisco Vásquez de Coronado, who in 1540 led a group of settlers over the Mexican border, heading further north over the White Mountains. Today, there's nothing along the highway commemorating the famed Spaniard, much of the road now largely showcases the grandeur of the Apache National Forest.

I first rode this highway in April 2008, returning again in April of 2010. On the first run, I simply rode from Clifton in the south to Springerville in the north. But on the return run in April 2010, I dragged some of my riding buddies along to show them how awesome this road is. We brought our camping gear and set up camp about 1/3 of the way up in a little picnic area dubbed "Sheep Saddle" off the road. The road is so void of travelers, the forest rangers didn't bother to stop to check for camping permits.

After the first night of camping, we spent the following day riding up to Alpine and crossing into New Mexico for a southerly ride down US Route 180, before turning back into Arizona to meet up with the Coronado Trail.  We camped another night before completing one more run at The Coronado.

the coronado trailthe coronado trail

the coronado trailthe coronado trail

beer in snowthe coronado trail

Road conditions are mixed depending on where along the highway you are. Towards the south, the road runs through the Morenci Mine, and red colored dust is found all over the road. The next 20 miles expect to find loose gravel in the turns. About halfway up, you'll find rocks on the road, having fallen from rocky mountain sides. At one time, I found cattle on the road, having to stop and wait for them clear away. In April there was still plenty of snow up by Hannagan Meadow. Once you pass the town of Alpine, the road tends to become faster, with wider curves.

If you just love twisties, and you hate traffic, give The Coronado Trail a try.

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Friday, February 1, 2013

Moki Dugway, San Juan County, UT

moki dugway
Moki Dugway (photo by Teresco.org)
The bike already weighed 890 pounds wet by itself, and then I had another 100 pounds of camping gear loaded on to it, and yet I was taking it down a 10% downgrade, descending 1,100 feet over three miles of switchbacks all on gravel road.

The truth is that I was excited to ride it, but also nervous. I mean, the bike was damn heavy.

I figured I could just go slow. That's always the safe thing, right? Except when you have other vehicles behind you, waiting to get around you, it somehow makes you want to go faster.

Seems you never know what you're made of until you push yourself to the limits.

The Moki Dugway is part of State Route 261 in south-eastern Utah. It one of those proverbial roads, "out in the middle of nowhere", and now seemingly exists more as a rite of passage for motorcyclists, seeking to test their skills. But at one time, it existed for trucks carrying uranium ore from Fry Creek to Mexican Hat.

You wonder why the State doesn't just pave this thing. But then again, why? It wouldn't be the Moki Dugway without it. Riders wouldn't go out of their way to ride it. And nearby Navajo villages like Mexican Hat would never bring in tourist dollars.

Some things are just better off leaving alone.


It was April of 2009 that I got my opportunity to ride it. I had just spent the night camping in Natural Bridges National Monument, and had awoke to find a layer of frost on my 2005 Harley-Davidson Ultra Classic Electra Glide (the second one after I totaled the first). From here, I would head south-west all day, hoping to reach the little known Grand Canyon Caverns along old Route 66.

But in my way stood Moki Dugway.

As it turned out, it wasn't the twisty, steep, gravel road that made it seem frightening. It was the amazing view.

Moki Dugway starts from atop a massive mesa nearly a quarter-mile up into the sky. You look over the edge and you can see a hundred miles into the horizon, almost like looking out the window of an airplane. When you consider how steep the decline, how narrow the road, and how slippery the gravel can be, it's a humbling experience.

I made my descent, taking it slowly.

But it seemed rather easy, so I increased my speed.

Then I got to the first switchback, applied the brake easily, and found my tires slipping a little. I rounded the turn, and opted to keep the bike in low gear just so that I wouldn't have to rely on the brakes.

moki dugway by motorcyclemoki dugway by motorcycle


Utah highway 261south eastern utah

 After a few switchbacks, it seemed rather easy.

And by the time I traversed enough elevation, it didn't seem as precarious anymore. I wondered to myself, "Is that it? Is that what other riders have been raving about?"

I guess what's to really rave about this road is the awesome view from the top. I could have watched it forever.  Imagine how amazing the sunrises from here!

Well, once I hit the bottom, and the asphalt returned, I rode into the tiny town of Mexican Hat, where I stopped at the Old Bridge Grill (inside San Juan Inn), where I had a roast beef sandwich on Indian fry bread. An old Navajo guy sat down with me and had some stories to tell. I hardly understood him, but I did a good job of pretending.

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About Steve

San Diego, CA-based motorcycle rider who likes long road trips, old rustic bars, craft beer, and tough women. Can often be found where there's free Wi-Fi, writing about the mysteries of life. (Read more...)