Greetings from Heber City, Utah, which is near Park City, but has more affordable restaurants. I arrived here yesterday from Jackson Hole, Wyoming, which does not have many affordable restaurants, but does have a lot of private jets at the airport. Coincidence?

Some of you (okay, very few of you) have asked about my bike and equipment setup. If you’re not into this kind of stuff, skip over this post and wait for the next one. I shall not be offended.

With that, motorcyclists, gear-heads, BMW Club of Southern California members and fans everywhere of all things technical and usually expensive, here’s my jam…

Bike:

• 2008 BMW R1200GS. 51,000+ trouble-free miles. Heated grips, no ESA, standard suspension. Namibia orange. Stock seat (AKA, CIA Black Site torture device). I call her “Baby.”

The folks at @RevZilla are putting kids through college and funding retirements thanks, in no small part, to my voracious appetite for gear. #UnderstandingWife, #ZLA-Army, #hankwentthataway, #hashtag. I’m so hip.

View from the Lander Cutoff of the Oregon Trail toward Star Valley, Wyoming. Gotta remember to look up once and a while and not to stare at the farkles on my bike. Yes, farkle is a real word.

Bike Modifications:

• Touratech Front Fender Beak Cover. More for looks than paint chipping protection. Makes the GS look like a GSA from a distance, which, short of having a larger fuel tank and with my additional mods, it pretty much is.

• Baja Designs XL Pro LED off-road lights. Mounted adjacent to the stock headlight, you get darkness to daylight with the flip of a switch. I’ll flash these 4300 lumen-producing babies when approaching an intersection with an opposing driver turning left (while talking or texting on a cell phone, or eating, or beating a kid in the backseat). Very effective at getting attention and burning out corneas.

• Ztechnik V-Stream windscreen. The unique design eliminates most buffeting and bug strikes. Those hurt.

• Rox Speed Handlebar Riser. I’m tall-ish, have a bad back and wouldn’t bend over to pick up a coin on the ground if it’s less than a quarter. You think I’m gonna reach down for my handlebars?

• Garmin Zumo 550 GPS. A finicky navigation device, which I’ll address with other complaints at another time.

• Kaoko Throttle Control. The middle class man’s cruise control. An absolute necessity on long highway stretches. BMW made true cruise control standard on the new GS.

• Cee Bailey GSA winglets. Cold air deflectors/low-flying bug killers.

• Pivot Pegz. Riding pegs that allow for a more flexible and aggressive off-road riding stance. Useless on the highway, other than toe tapping to the iPod.

• Hepco-Becker upper and lower crash-bar system. It works, trust me.

• AirHawk Seat Pad (driver and pillion). Like I said, BMW stock seats are awful. A custom made seat runs about $700 and stays with the bike when it gets sold. An AirHawk pad works pretty much with any bike. My current AirHawk pad (third one) sprung a leak on this trip. I patched it in Coos Bay, Oregon two weeks ago, but the patch failed, turned into a big-ass hole yesterday and now it’s gonna be a long ride home. Ugh.

• Giant Loop Fandango Tank Bag. This bag was great — durable, roomy, low profile — until the zipper closure failed on this trip. Now it’s an unusable lump on my tank, secured with duct tape.

• Sargent Passenger Backrest (removable). I like to lock in the missus behind me when I’m doing wheelies.

• Touratech Rear Rack Extension. Lightweight rack solution for carrying stuff you probably don’t need to bring.

• Givi Outback Trekker Pannier System. Originally, I had the BMW Vario Case system on the bike, but needed more space and security. These things are damn-near bulletproof. Not that I’d like to test that claim.

• Keeping the Rubber Side Down. For tires, I’m currently running Metzler Tourance Next for highway and trail. TKC 80 knobbies for true off-road. I get my tires from Chris at CT Motorcycle Tires in Reseda, CA. Good guy. Good deals.

My AirHawk seat pad with a “small leak.” The next 750 miles to home are gonna hurt.

What used to be my tank bag is now a $200 armrest. Awesome.

Riding Gear:

• Helmet. For touring, a Schuberth C3. It’s super-quiet, 99% waterproof and hotter than hell in the summer. For ADV riding, a Shoei Hornet DS. Yeah, these are high-end helmets and, sure, you can buy a helmet for fifty bucks. But is your head worth fifty bucks?

• Communication system. Cardo Scala Rider G9 paired with my passenger using a Scala Q2. Essential for 2-Up travel to keep your voice from giving out from turning and yelling over your shoulder, “What deer? I don’t see any damn deer!” Stuff like that.

• Rev’It Outback Armored Riding Jacket. Versatile, vented, not especially waterproof. That said, after 30 minutes of hard rain all gear fails. Water finds a way in every time. If you don’t like rain, avoid riding during monsoon season.

• Klim Dakar Riding Pants. Vented, adjustable fit, hard to dance in.

• Boots. For touring, Alpinestars Gore-Tex Waterproof boots. Waterproof-ish is more accurate. For ADV, Gaerne G-Adventure boots. I only received a hairline fracture of my right lateral malleolus wearing this boot, instead of a snapped ankle and a helicopter ride. My mom always said, “Don’t scrimp on shoes.You only get one set of feet.” Right, as usual, mom.

• Gloves. Rev’It Neutron with “connect” fingertips for easy use of iPhone (take photos, change music, or write a long email) without removing the glove.

• Support Gear. Back-A-Line support belt. Not really sure if this thing does what it’s supposed to do – eliminate back pain and fatigue while riding – but I’ll try anything. In my physical case, it’s not about the years, it’s about the miles.

Well, there it is. Hank’s complete, perfect bike and riding equipment setup. Which is total crap if you were to take a look my order history with RevZilla. I’m always looking for the next “gotta have” farkle.

The Smooth Crew has a favorite joint in Heber City, Utah called “Chick’s” (see “Smoothtah” post below). They’re famous for this thing they call a “scone.” I’ve been to the UK a few times and this ain’t a scone. It’s a big piece of fried bread, loaded with butter and served with honey. Fantastic and as nasty as it looks.

The highways I traveled yesterday from Jackson Hole to Heber City crossed from Wyoming into Idaho, then back into Wyoming, then into Utah, then back into Wyoming and finally back into Utah. I have no idea what state this is in the photo. Safe bet is to assume it’s somewhere in the Great American West and go from there.

Travel safe. And often.

“Life’s short. Live it up.” – Nikita Kruschev

Greetings from Kalispell, Montana. Sometimes I start these posts with a little background or trivia about where I’m staying. Truth is, there ain’t much to Kalispell, short of this city of 20,000 being the “Gateway to Glacier National Park.”

Well played, Kalispell.

Since my last post from Jasper, we’ve had a couple of amazing touring days. I’m also a little worn out from riding nearly 2,400 miles over 13 days (with two days off, which, if you know us, usually means “hit the bricks” and check out the surrounding attractions), so I’m going to be less wordy tonight (you’re welcome) and cut to the chase with the good stuff.

On Monday, we left Jasper and rode the Icefields Parkway, also known as Highway 93, which ends somewhere in Arizona, to Banff. The Icefields Parkway is a scenic route (an understatement, truly) that parallels the Continental Divide along the Canadian Rockies and links Jasper National Park with Banff National Park. In addition to being the home to a number of active glaciers, the Icefields Parkway also has some serious eye candy — ice-carved canyons, mountain peaks, lakes and waterfalls.

From Banff, we continued south on Highway 93 to lovely Kalispell (sorry, all you Kalispellians) and a dream destination (not really into the concept of “Bucket List”) for the both of us: Glacier National Park.

Glacier is one of the national park system’s crown jewels. It has everything, from lakes and rushing rivers to glaciers and grizzly bears. The best way to see Glacier is by taking the famous Red Bus Tour through the park and along the Going-to-the-Sun road. Aside from the almost motorcycle-like feeling you get from traveling in a distinctive, bright red open-top bus, technically a handmade White Motor Company Model 706, made in 1936, using an oak frame and with original coachwork still in place, we found our guide, Marlon, to be exceptional. He really put the majesty, geology and history of the park into perspective. And he’s a funny dude, too, for a retired high school science teacher. If I’d had Marlon for 11th grade biology, I might’ve found science more interesting and paid better attention (and would’ve probably still got a “C”).

That’s a real glacier, folks. One of, like, 10 we saw along the Icefields Parkway.

The view from Mt. Edith Cavell near Jasper. Ignore the man in the photo.

Athabasca Falls along the Icefields Parkway. We live in a drought-affected area of California. All I could think about was how more water went by every five seconds than we’ve been allocated by the water provider for July and August.

This is Dee’s view every ride day. Mine is sightly better.

In Canada, they call this “poutine.” In the US, we call this fries, gravy and cheese chunks. Tastes better than it looks — or sounds.

Baby rolled over to fifty grand 15 miles north of the US border. I’ve never owned a bike with this many miles — and all ridden by me. Heck, most of my other bikes wouldn’t have survived that long. Who’s a good girl? Baby’s a good girl! Yes you are! Yes you are!

Lake McDonald in Glacier National Park. Note to great-nephew, Gavin: Skipping “Flatty-Rock-Skippers” is a must-do here. I got a “7-skip!” Beat that!

The famous Red Bus, handmade in 1936. The park owns 34 of ’em. I got to ride shotgun and keep an eye peeled for grizzlies. Sneaky bastards. Saw only one measly, small black bear — and from a safe distance. BTW: “Riding Shotgun” no longer seems to include shotguns. Now they tell me.

Two views from the Going-to-the-Sun road, one of the most popular motorcycling roads in the US — and for good reason. Not bad in an open-top bus, either. Photo on the right shows where the road was cut into the mountain using pickaxes and shovels between 1924 and 1931.

Logan Pass at the top of the Going-to-the-Sun rod, where east meets west at the Continental Divide. Two full tour buses sang “Happy Birthday” to Dee and our guide gave her an ornament for our tree. I got her the usual for her birthday, absolutely nothing. But I did offer to drive the rest of the way home.

Marlon is the tour guide to ask for when you take a Red Bus Tour. Informative, funny and didn’t drive off any cliffs. I’m still kinda tweaked about the no shotgun thing, however.

It might be a few days before I get the chance to post again. Heading tomorrow to Joe Phelps’ place, Rancho Relaxo, near Livingston, Montana and next to the Yellowstone River. After that, Yellowstone! The last time I was at Yellowstone was 1965 when I was seven. I remember that trip mostly from the home movies my dad shot and especially the reel where he hand feeds a bear out of the window of our 1962 Chevy Impala and how the bear tried to climb into the car to see what my mom was eating. It was sweet — the car, not the bear. I didn’t realize my mom could make that sound.

Butt hurts. Check. Back aches. Check. Inside of helmet stinks. Check. Good to go!

Come on, we all have the first one. We don’t talk about it much. Maybe to someone you trust with intimate information. Someone who understands you, gets you and knows how to stay quiet while you talk. Maybe it’s someone who has had a similar first time experience that changed how they look at the world, too. Admit it,  after that relationship, nothing was ever the same. It was a long time ago, and maybe in a more innocent time, but, oh, if you’re like me, you’ll never forget your first motorcycle.

Where the hell did you think this was going? Jeeze, my wife and kids read this blog. And at least three nuns (that I know of).

My motorcycles have always been “shes.” I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just easier to express my love of fine mechanical engineering in the feminine. Truly, however, I have no idea how the “she” thing got started.

She – the first one – was a 1971 Yamaha Mini-Enduro. A 60cc, two-stroke miniature dirt bike that Yamaha introduced in the US around the time Bruce Brown’s movie, “On Any Sunday,” was released — and changed the focus of boys everywhere. I think one positive side-effect of the film was probably the general overall increase in grade point averages for 12-year-old-boys nationwide, determined to do whatever it would take to get their parents to buy them a bike. “Read it (my report card, June, 1971) and weep, mom, a deal is a deal.”

A ’71 Yami Mini-Enduro. Still sets my heart fluttering just looking at her. Or maybe it’s due to too much Red Bull. The last 30 miles each day is the hardest and I do what I have to do to make it through.

My mom worked as nurse in an ER, so capitulating couldn’t have been easy. My dad was a mechanical engineer and was probably jealous that he didn’t have a report card to show my mom.

“Ingrid” (beats me) was fast. Okay fast-ish. The bike had a wheelie-prone clutch (like a real motorcycle), three speeds and spewed blue smoke because my dad didn’t know how to properly mix the gas and oil. Did I mention he was a mechanical engineer? Ingrid had lousy suspension, a twitchy throttle, sketchy brakes and was generally pretty dangerous to ride. I could not have loved her more. I’ve loved many motorcycles since Ingrid. There was “Ursula (the Bitch),” “Tonga-Le-Oh” (um, ah… yeah ) and even “Zelda.”

I also named my 1954 Chevy pickup “Bess.” Some people think I’m weird. Whatever. I’ve known true love.

Bess. What a gal. Dee had her painted bright red for me as a “surprise birthday present.” I was surprised, all right. I didn’t speak to her for, like, a week. This is the “before” picture.

Now I ride “Baby,” a 2008 BMW R1200GS. The “GS” stands for “Gelande-Strasse, which, in German, basically translates into “road and not road.” Baby is a wonderful machine that has taken me all over the US, on-road and not-on-road, and now to Canada. Her odometer will turn 50,000 trouble-free miles while on this trip. I love Baby like a member of the family. And I’ll probably sell her when I get back and move on to my next motorcycle affair. I’m done taking her off-road and, as I’ll explain in another post down the road, need to up my comfort level on-road.

Baby got Back. No man has ever requested that song in a bar as a tribute to his girl. Never.

So, fellow riders, what was your first? Come on, you can tell me. I understand how you feel. Put it in the comments section below. I know my club-mates at BMWCSC have secrets to tell…

“Oh, Canada.”

I don’t know any other words to the Canadian National Anthem, but the first two, “Oh, Canada” pretty much sum up what we’ve seen the past couple of days. A visual feast.

I arrived in Seattle Wednesday afternoon and met up with my former workmate, Gavin G, to catch up on his life. I’m not being cute about his last name (it’s Graves), but when we worked together at the advertising agency a few years ago, we all called him “Gavin G!” or just “G!” He was really into rap and spoke in a kind of natural urban smooth drawl that is a product of his mixed neighborhood upbringing. He was real, still is, and not a bit of a “put-on” person. 

Now G!’s married and has two kids, and responds to people calling him “Gavin” in subdued tones, but he’ll always be just G! (always with the exclamation) to me. Great to hang with you, little brother.

Dee flew into Seattle Wednesday night. Thursday morning we began our adventure ride after meeting her cousin, Shawn, for breakfast. Shawn’s a cool guy and I spent time trying to convince him to ride with us. We’ll get him going “thataway” sometime.

I seem to have picked up something along the way.

We headed east on the Northern Cascade Highway (WA 20). This is one of those roads you hear about all the time from other riders. And for the most part they’re right. Perfect for touring on a motorcycle, which is rider-speak for “go really fast and see pretty stuff out of the corner of your eye.” We stayed the night in Winthrop, which is kind of an old west themed town. Not much to recommend it, other than the air conditioning in the motel which worked fine. Which reminds me, it’s been hot in Washington and British Columbia. Like, unseasonably – check that – unreasonably hot. When we rolled into Kamloops, after crossing into Canada, it was 102F. Of course, we’re in Canada where that’s only 35C, so it should be cooler, right?

The view of Ross Lake from the summit along the Northern Cascade Highway. The water is a brilliant green due to sediment known as “rock flour.” I’ve had biscuits made of what I’m sure was rock flour at a Denny’s once. Really, I crack myself up.

Welcome to British Columbia, where it’s a balmy 102F,  just like in Colombian Colombia.

We had dinner at a biker recommended joint, “The Noble Pig.” Fantastic! We shared the baked potato, bacon and cabbage (yeah, cabbage) chowder and a ridiculously large serving of their signature truffle and mushroom mac and cheese. The Noble Pig also brews their own beer (many varieties), which I almost poured on my head to cool off. If you find yourself in Kamloops (I love saying “Kamloops”) be sure to check out the Pig.

Three or four thousand calories, but it doesn’t count when you share. Scientific fact.

From Kamloops (as satisfying to say as Yakima; go on, try it), we headed 275 miles northeast on the Yellowhead Highway to the town of Jasper, Alberta. It was a great ride, especially seeing as the air temperature finally dropped to about 80F. This little town of 4,500 sits in the middle of Jasper National Park, which is in the Canadian Rockies, and, as it’s summer, currently has about 50,000 tourists filling the hotels and restaurants. I guess that would include us.

Can you name all of the provinces in Canada? Yeah, me neither. I think there’s British Columbia, Alberta, Sasquatch, Sneezy, Dopey and Tundra-land. I will, no doubt, be hearing from my Canadian friends very soon.

We began our day by taking the Jasper Skytram, which takes you up to about 7,500 feet and overlooks the beautiful mountain ranges, rivers and lakes of the Jasper National Park.

Jasper from the top of the Skytram at 7,500 feet.

In the afternoon, we rode over to Maligne Lake and took a boat tour out to Spirit Island. This trip is not to be missed if you ever visit Jasper. The lake is fed and surrounded by active glaciers. The photos below will give you an idea of the area, but won’t really give you the scope. It’s massive and stunning. As Dee said to me on the boat ride today, “You know, a 100,000-year-old glacier really puts your mortality into perspective.”

Indeed. Like the John Mellencamp tune says, “Your life is now.”

How do they get all this magnificent beauty into one place?

Spirit Island and one of the glaciers that put all that water around it.

Waterfall in Maligne Canyon that has carved through rock for thousands of years. I feel small. Again.

In the unlikely event that we started sending out a holiday card again, this’d probably be this year’s photo. I doubt it, so Happy Holidays!

Randomness #1. Lots of signs warning us about encountering animals on the road, like moose, deer and elk, but the one that made me laugh was this Bear Warning sign on the way to Maligne Lake. The part I liked the best was “Stay in your car if bears are encountered.” That’s comforting when you’re on a bike.

Randomness #2: By the end of the ride day, I’m pretty wiped out and sometimes take a little nap. Dee thinks it’s just hilarious to take photos of me sleeping on this trip to make up for the 300 or so photos I have of her sleeping in the car. Right. It’s on.

Jasper is the northern most point of our planned route. Tomorrow we’ll start heading south through Lake Louise and stopping overnight in Banff. By all indications, guidebooks, locals overheard, and stray bikers heading for Sturgis, we should continue to see magnificent country for the next few days.

By the way, I do drive a car now and then. It’s an old Jeep Wrangler. Her name, for no reason in particular, is “Clarice.” But you gotta say it like Hannibal Lecter in “Silence of the Lambs.”

“Hello, Clarice.”

Creepy, right?

“A nun and a biker walk into a bar…” began no joke ever.

I think the nicest types of people I’ve probably ever met are nuns and bikers. So far, I haven’t met any nuns on this trip, unless they were incognito. You know, undercover nuns. I have, however, met a number of bikers. Well, more like I’ve talked to a number of bikers. I have yet to meet a biker-nun (nun-biker?), but I’m sure they exist.

First, let’s get the nun thing out of the way. Okay, I know some nuns. My daughter, Kelsey, attended Louisville High School, an all-girls catholic school, and we got to know a few of the nuns, who are Sisters of St. Louis, through parent organization meetings and the like. Many of the sisters have become our friends. Why? Because they are just outstanding human beings —  the kind of people you want to be associated with and wish you were like, short of, well, you know, the nun commitment thing. And I’m a dude. Anyway, these women have devoted their lives to making the world a better place, which is usually a cliché, but absolutely the day-to-day deal for the Sisters of St. Louis. We’ve become close to a couple of them, Sister Brid and Sister Michele, and have been fortunate to stay with them whenever we’re in New York City — and they with us.

What I love about the sisters is their acceptance of all people, good and bad, and the sisters’ unshakable belief that we are all worthy of grace and have value. I come from the business world where success is measured by one’s ability to “scale up” an idea – put a product into as many hands, and for as much profit, as possible. The sisters help others find their way and are content to do it one person at a time. So I like nuns.

Bikers are also, generally, good people. I know some bikers. To be clear, I’m not a biker, per se. I think of myself as a “rider.” I ride all styles and brands of motorcycles – call me “bike agnostic” — and I don’t really embrace the perceived biker “culture” of Harleys and leather outerwear. I don’t have a problem with that culture, but it’s just not me.

What I like about bikers/riders is that we share a common love of two-wheel-driven exposure to the elements found on the road (or trail, or track, or whatever). And we’ll talk about it to any other biker/rider who’ll listen. And to some who won’t.

It seems that everywhere that I’ve stopped on this trip – for meals, butt-unnumbing or an Advil reload – I’ve gotten into a conversation with a fellow rider. It’s summertime on perfect roads, so they’re everywhere. We pass each other by the hundreds, going in opposite directions on the highway and, most often, returning the familiar two-fingers-held-low wave that says, “Yo, you and I get it.”

When we’re stopped and talking, the tone is collegial and the topic is always about the ride. We almost never speak to drivers in cages (cars), unless they start up the conversation and have that “Man, I used to ride a bike…” look in their eyes, as their kids drop Cheerios and apple juice between the seats of their mini-van. I don’t know, it’s just an unwritten rule. “I’m cool with you asking me about my bike and where I’m headed, but you gotta start the convo, Mac.”

But fellow riders? Jeeze, we get right into it and only stop talking because we have another hundred miles or so to ride before we reach our destinations.

This is my bike. You wanna talk about it?

Random thing along the way that I can’t explain. If there’s a ship in the yard, would that make it a shipyard? Help me out here.

I got into a conversation with a biker yesterday as we both were checking into the Motel 6 in Coos Bay, Oregon (truly much nicer than the parking garage suite). Two dudes, who’d never met before, riding different bikes and within 10 minutes we were like long lost pals, deep in conversation about our shared passion. We decided get some dinner at a nice Coos Bay workaday burger and beer joint called “Walt’s Pourhouse.” Get it?

My instant pal, Randy, hails from the Florida Keys and is a retired air traffic controller. I know a little about aviation and air traffic controllers. You’d think a guy who made a career out of talking to people – lots of people – all day long would be kind of reticent. Not Randy. Man, we talked for over three hours about life, the places we’ve been and, of course, motorcycles.

My new riding buddy, Randy. 11 years my senior, riding 9,000 miles to my measly 4,000. Badass. Keep the shiny side up and the rubber side down, brother!

Randy rides a top-of-the-line Harley, his 18^th bike I believe he said, and is currently on a 9,000 mile, “round the US trip.” His target destination is Sturgis, South Dakota, where about 500,000 (mostly) Harley riders converge each summer to hang out and, you guessed it, talk about bikes. This year marks the 75^th anniversary of the event. BMW has a similar annual event, but only draws about 7,000 attendees.

More randomness. Grant’s Pass is NOT a small town. (Inside joke)

Randy and I agreed to meet this morning and ride together for about a hundred miles along the central coast of Oregon from Coos Bay to Newport. This has some of the most beautiful coastline you’ll ever see — from a motorcycle or a cage (car). We stopped for breakfast at a joint called the Newport Café, which was voted “#1 Breakfast in Newport.” It says so on the sign out front. Who am I to argue? We both had the breaded and fried razor clams and eggs for breakfast (OMG! Just…OMG!). We talked for at least another hour about bikes and life before Randy headed east towards Sturgis and I continued north. If clocks didn’t move and the sun never set, we’d probably still be there debating the merits of liquid-cooled motors.

Razor clams, breaded and fried, with a Lipitor chaser. Worth it. Why is the crab smiling while holding fries and a soda? Think he knows what comes next? If everything I liked to eat was presented in it’s cute animal form, I’d probably become a vegan right quick.

More fantastic Oregon coastal vistas continued and, along the way, I stopped at the Tillamook Cheese Factory in (where else?) Tillamook. Ah-yup, they make a bunch of cheese there. Like 167,000 pounds per day. That’s what the sign said, anyway. I trust signs. You can watch the assembly line floor from above and behind glass on the self-guided tour, then walk through a salad bar type line to sample various Tillamook cheeses using a toothpick. Or fingers, if you’re a four-year-old. Yeef. I was probably there for a total of 22 minutes, including the time it took to secure my bike and gear. Go there, or don’t.

Those blocks of Tillamook cheddar cheese in the lower right corner weigh in at around 40 lbs. About right for my kinda cheeseburger.

The problem with the cheese sample bar is that most four-year-olds can’t read the sign that says, “Please use a toothpick to select samples.” Ew.

Nope, still not sick of the views.

I arrived at my destination, Astoria, Oregon, in the late afternoon. Astoria is a city of 10,000 people on the Columbia River, just a few miles from the Pacific Ocean, and is the oldest American settlement west of the Rockies. The city lines the south banks of the Columbia River, and the north banks of Young’s Bay. What’s interesting about Astoria in pop culture is that the city was the filming location for “Kindergarten Cop” and, more famously, “Goonies.” I love both of these films (“It’s naht a toomah!”) and Astoria was the perfect backdrop, with a gentrified and hipster-vibed city center and classic Victorian homes on the hillside overlooking town. Just beautiful.

I watched the sun set on this warm evening at the Fort George Brewery and Public House, while sampling their small batch brews and enjoying a bowl of rich and spicy clam chowder. I guess today’s dining theme was “clams, two ways.”

Tonight, I’m staying at the Commodore Astoria Hotel, which is a funky, retro Euro-style hotel (as in a shared bath in the hallway, which is fine). I’m in comfortable room that’s apparently nowhere near the county jail.

Tomorrow I’ll cross the Astoria-Megler Bridge (a very imposing structure at 196 feet – can’t wait to see how windy it is on the GS) into Washington and head to Seattle to meet up with Dee, after she flies in tomorrow night. From there, the adventure really begins. Dee is much more outgoing than I am. She’s a great conversationalist and has the gift of being able to engage almost anyone. That said, if there’s a biker-nun in our path, trust me, Dee will find her.

Oh, okay. Wait… what?

This is the motto of the State of California that appears on the Great Seal. It’s not an “official” motto of the State, but there it is. “Eureka” is a Greek word that translates into “I have found it,” so if you think about it, the unofficial motto of the State of California is actually redundant. “I have found it! I have found it!” Jeeze, calm down. Historically, “Eureka!” refers to the discovery of gold in California in 1849. The impact of the gold rush is that people moved here and now traffic sucks in LA.

Greetings from Eureka, California, where I’ve just finished day three of the Northwest Epic Ride (With a Twist). Let’s get you up-to-speed.

As planned, I left home Friday morning and rode to our ranch in Paso Robles. I’ve done this ride a few times and have discovered some great side roads you should check out sometime when you’re headed north. I usually take the San Marcos Pass/Highway 154 from Santa Barbara to Los Olivos. It’s a great alternative to the 101 beach view, although not always faster. From there, I took Foxen Canyon Road, which runs past some great wineries, like Fess Parker and Cambria Estates, and rolled into Santa Maria. Then I rode along the coast through little towns like Guadalupe (stuck somewhere in time around 1975) and Nipomo (just stuck). The last few miles into Paso Robles on the 101 were a traffic-filled mess (see gold rush above), as the Midstate Fair is in town, but whenever I walk through the door at the ranch, I exhale and say out loud, “We should live here.”

Rancho Deeluxe, Paso Robles. What’s not to like?

Saturday I started the day with breakfast at the Nosh Café in Paso Robles (solid eggs benedict) with my pal and ranch neighbor, Charlie. Charlie is married to Steve. Charlie is a chick. Steve isn’t. Steve and Charlie grow amazing wine grapes and Steve taught me the saying, “Wanna have a million dollars from the wine business? Start with two million dollars.”

Me and Charlie (the chick in “Charlie and Steve”) at the Nosh Cafe. Hey! Matching shirts!

Single lane Arroyo Seco Bridge between Greenfield and Carmel Valley. Shhh… secret side road.

Then I was off on more side roads to San Jose and spent the night in the guesthouse of our good friends, John and Debra Murphy. Here’s how I know they’re good friends: they weren’t even home. Fortunately, John’s mom, Ellie, lives with John and Deb and her daughter, Eileen, was visiting from Reno. I made chicken marsala for dinner and had one of those amazing conversations with a wise person of a certain age (yeah, that’d be Ellie) who reminded me (without actually saying it like this) that life is beautiful and should be lived well. I just adore her.

Me and Ellie. Pay attention and you might just learn a few things.

So, Eureka. I wasn’t sure if I’d even make it this far today. My usual mileage target is about 200-250 miles. I like riding side roads and stopping to look at stuff, so that can take a while. It often takes me six hours to travel 200 miles. Today I did 350 miles in about nine hours — and I’m really feeling those last 50 miles.

Bodega Bay. Patience, I’m new to this selfie stick thing.

The Mendocino coastline. After 100-plus perfect panoramas of rocky shoreline, did I get bored? No. Duh.

I usually plan ahead for lodging, as is the case for most of this trip — and especially during the busy summer vacation months. But not today. I just didn’t know where I’d land. When I was about 100 miles out from Eureka, I called Dee, using the Cardo Scala Rider G9 communication system in my helmet that connects via Bluetooth to my mobile phone, and we started discussing lodging options. It’s good to have a competent travel planner for a spouse. The possible destination options included Garberville (original target), Fortuna (50 more miles) and Eureka (68 more miles). Long story short, Dee found a good deal on a Four-Star-TripAdvisor-rated motel in Eureka called the Town House Motel. Okay, said me. Give me the coordinates and I’ll drink a Red Bull for the additional mileage boost. The last 70 miles were through the Redwood Forest area, so the scenery was worth the effort.

Eureka has been going through some hard times. It’s like Stockton, California, but without the glitz. For you Midwesterners reading this, that’s like saying Akron is like Cleveland, but without, well, the glitz.

The Town House Motel hasn’t been spared, either. It’s on the main drag and conveniently located (I found out later) directly across the street from the Humboldt County Correctional Facility. The motel manager, who proudly displays his Four Star rating from TripAdvisor on the wall of the office, referred to the county joint as the “Humboldt Hilton.” Nice.

Fairmont. Ritz Carlton. Waldorf-Astoria. Town House. Been there. Done that.

The neighbors are staying across the street at the Humboldt County Correctional Facility.

My room, to be fair, is very clean. What makes it unique, however, is that it’s a ground floor room. In the parking garage. The Town House has two rooms in the parking garage. I really don’t know why someone would design something like this on purpose. My room is adjacent to the stairwell leading upstairs to the “regular” rooms and a 2006 Ford Expedition. I’ve included a photo as proof. From my room, I can hear the residents of the Humboldt Hilton talking loudly as they work out in the weight room. I’m being dead serious here. I can hear the weights clanking down as I write this.

Room with a view. Of the parking garage.

Apparently I was the last to check in this evening and the Town House now had its “No Vacancy” sign sputtering intermittently out front as it partially illuminated the four or five panhandlers that I had to navigate and dole out cash to while walking to and from dinner. My thinking about this is that they’re human beings — like me and you — and are just trying to get by. Hell, who isn’t? I figure some loose change from me won’t make their lives any better or any worse, so I usually hand it over. Addiction is a day-by-day thing, you know?

I had dinner at the Lost Coast Brewery Pub, which was packed with Humboldt hipsters. Along with a pint of Lost Coast Blonde Ale I savored the signature beef stew, which is cooked in Lost Coast’s stout beer. A hearty reward after 370 miles of windy California coastline.

When I got back to my room – and after stripping every possible removable part from my bike and then parking it under a surveillance camera – I bolted the door, placed a chair to block it and sat rocking back and forth on the bed for a few minutes, comparing Eureka to what the apocalyptic city looked like in the film “Blade Runner.” Suddenly concerned about defending myself if things went south, I dug around in my tank bag looking for the little folding knife My Buddy, Bird, gave me. It always falls to the bottom and I was kind of worried that I wouldn’t find the only weapon – short of snappy dry wit – that I carry. Then…

Eureka! I have found it!

Whew! Planning to sleep with one eye open.

I’m lazy. I’ll admit it. I love to write, but hate the chore of the actual “writing” part. Perhaps more accurately I don’t type well, and because it slows down my creative process, I tend not to have the discipline to just sit down and write which is a quality that I admire in other writers. “Writers write,” I believe, is the adage.

I have friends and colleagues who write or publish something nearly… Every. Damn. Day. At the very least they re-post something interesting they’ve read, along with a comment or two. I don’t know how they do it. I’m so easily distracted by shiny objects and puppy videos that I haven’t posted to this blog in over a year. And even then I repurposed someone else’s Ride Report (see “Lifted Literary Longings”).

It’s not because I haven’t been traveling. Just like the Johnny Cash song, “I’ve been everywhere, man.” I’ve been back and forth across the US about five times. I ate three helpings of tuna poke on the Big Island of Hawaii, bruddah. I’ve taken two significant motorcycle rides; one on slab through the Shenandoah Valley and Smokey Mountains, the other off-road on the Arizona Backcountry Discovery Route (AZBDR) with the Smooth Crew. I bopped around Patagonia in South-Freakin’ America in January. Pura vida and great beefsteaks. I’ve even been to Akron, Ohio — twice in the past year. They have a very nice air and space (okay, mostly air) museum there.

So I’ve been around; seen me some airports. But I guess I didn’t have enough to talk about to motivate me to write and post my observations. Some of you reading this are incredulous at this comment. And because, like I said, I’m lazy.

Until now.

On Friday, July 24, 2015, I’m leaving on an Epic Ride — an Epic Ride with a twist. I’ll ride my trusty BMW R1200GS, “Baby,” from my home in Topanga north to Seattle, across Washington state on the North Cascade Highway and up into Canada. The farthest destination north will be Jasper, Alberta, then down the Icefield Parkway to Lake Louise, Banff and back into the US via Montana. From there, it’s Glacier National Park (which is currently on fire, yay), then Paradise Valley, Montana to visit my pal and former boss (he hates that title, but it makes it simpler to explain), Joe Phelps. Then it’s on to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, Jackson Hole, Park City, Zion National Park (for the fourth time — and worth it, trust me), Las Vegas (because Vegas, baby! — and it’s on the way home) and then, well, home. 4,200 linear miles. 23 days. If all goes according to plan (HA! See “Smoothtah”), I’ll return home on Saturday, August 15.

Oh yeah, the twist? Dee is joining me for this trip. I’ll pick her up in Seattle and she’ll settle into the co-pilot position on the pillion seat.

Dee rode with me last year for a week down Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway through Virginia and North Carolina on a rented Honda Goldwing 1800. She’s solid when it comes to being both a traveling companion (always carries her own stuff) and a non-vehicle-operating motorcycle passenger, short of when she waves her hand in front of my face to get me to slow down instead of just saying it over the connected intercom in our helmets. Thankfully she spends about a third of her riding time asleep, so she doesn’t complain much. Yep, you read that correctly. Feel free to ask her about it.

So Baby has been outfitted, serviced and is ready to go. I’ve been fighting a summer cold which turned into this thing called “walking pneumonia,” which is laughable in that I didn’t walk much over the past two weeks while hosting this crud. I’m on the mend and pretty much ready to go, as well.

Follow me (link below) and stay tuned for posts along the way — assuming, of course, that I don’t get lazy and watch puppy videos instead of writing.

Travel safe and often.