Tunnel of Trees to Big Sky

Leggs Inn, famous since 1927

Mackinaw City, MI

  US Rte 2 starts in St. Ignace, MI,  gateway to the Upper Peninsula. Between Chelsea and Mackinaw City, where the big bridge connects the Yoopers with the Trolls, the principal route is US 127, a sort of spinal column through the Michigan "mitten." Around lunch time, boredom was setting in and I realized it would only be a small detour (3-4 hours at the most) if we diverted west to M119, the "Tunnel of Trees" road  up to Cross Village and Legg's Inn, where cliff side dining offers pierogis, naliesnicki, golupki, and other Polish delights. Legg's is a favorite of mine as Polish cuisine is a close cousin to the Lithuanian cooking that made me a strong boy. And M119 is perhaps the only stretch of road in Michigan worth riding a motorcycle on. A worthwhile excursion.

We crossed the Mackinac Bridge, at one time the longest suspension bridge in the world, under blue skies and made it to Manistique the first night and then Duluth in time to visit Riders Warehouse/Aerostitch whose catalogs and products I have been getting for many years. Jim bought himself a proper "do-rag" to protect his pate and now looks like a real biker. Camping was spectacular on the Spirit Mountain ski area overlooking the city and the harbor. Lake Superior looked as ominous as ever, gray and windblown and conjuring up images of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Lake Superior from Spirit Mtn



Devils Lake, ND

Jim calling out for pizza delivery

Jim is quite the chef and our morning's treat was a half-pound of bacon, cheddar cheese and 6 eggs.  Thus fortified, we headed west on US 2 through rolling fields and forests already starting to turn yellow and orange. North Dakota brought miles of wheat fields and very few people. I did see a car but no one was in it. I took a snapshot of the license plate. Nightfall found us on an island in Devils Lake, ND where a couple of Cliff Bars and a small flask of Jaegermeister sufficed for dinner.

North Dakota wheat

The next day our goal was to set eyes on America's latest monument to unbridled entrepreneurship and corporate stewardship: Williston, ND, center of the great North Dakota gas and oil fields and boom town gone extreme. If you have ever wondered whether industry has a conscience, visit Williston. 

From 75 miles to the east, signs of temporary workforce housing became evident along the highway. Oblong aluminum boxes with a few doors and windows were bunched 30 or 40 to a group on the range land. Closer to Williston, shanty towns of big RV trailers from all over the U.S. held itinerant tradespeople who travel like gypsies following the the opportunity for employment. Twelve hours on, twelve off, seven days per week with every 4th week off, these oil field workers can not be blamed for the social and environmental devastation caused by the oil boom. As one Montana resident said to me, at least its in North Dakota, where nobody lives anyway. Bury my heart at wounded knee.

From virtual emptiness to first gear, bumper-to-bumper creeping traffic, Rte 2 becomes an ugly clot of semis, pick-ups and dump trucks. There's construction everywhere, widening and strengthening the road surface to handle the weight, adding gas stations, big box stores, bars and strip clubs to meet the demand of an almost completely male population. Large blue tanks were arranged in distant industrial fields. Jim identified them as "contaminated waste water storage containers" like those he had at the shipyard. These tanks held the poisonous effluent of the horizontal fracking process and were destined to be buried somewhere "out of the way"-- like North Dakota. Those "in the way," the residents of Williston who do not happen to be in the service businesses, have reportedly sold out and moved away. The others I'll bet are looking forward to the day they can retire move to a place like Williston used to be.

Camping in the center of town at Culbertson, MT

It was great to get to Culbertson, MT late in the day where a cool breeze was blowing and the local high school was playing a football game right in the center of town. A lady at the town museum steered us to the little town park where camping was welcome. Jim bought some charcoal and victuals and we dined on pork tenderloin, vegetables, stuffed jalapenos and Montana craftbrew. Road magic!

Sleep? Who Needs Sleep?

Okay. So it's not 6 in the morning, but it's bloody early. On the right, "Uncle Jimmy," in crisp black and fluorescent green, riding a BMW R100RT, waxed, polished, and spotlessly clean. On the left:  your humble scribe, dressed in a very faded Aerostitch  jacket and K-Mart construction boots, astride a K75RT with PIAA fog lights, satellite radio, remote iPod controller, and some sort of electric whistle that is supposed to scare away deer. We are off to Michigan's Upper Penninsula where US Route 2 originates on its desolate meander to Seattle and the Pacific. Our only plan: make it to Glacier National Park before the road closes...and try our best to avoid snow.

Mackinac Bridge from the lighthouse

Rolling Out the Red Carpet

Since next summer's road trip was turning into ths fall's adventure, I realized I needed something more like a "touring motorcycle" than my very elemental 1972 BMW 750/5 or my very used up Kawasaki KLR 650 with the distinct Mexican accent. Serendipitously, a neighbor and frequent touring companion had decided to sell his '91 BMW K75RT and wondered why I did not buy it from him. I didn't want to disappoint him and bought it on the spot. I knew I'd have to break the news to Carol and I hoped her brother's involvement in the imminent excursion, and my roll as mentor and guide, would soften the impact of the news that yet another hydrocarbon-burning toy was moving into our barn and sharing space with our five indifferent cats.

A "K-series" BMW motorcycle is an odd bird to someone accustomed to the opposed aircooled cylinders that had been the tradition of BMW since the 1930's. These bikes have 3- or 4-cylinder liquid-cooled motors with overhead cams, fuel injection, and electronic engine management, much like the motor in an automobie. But the motor lies flat on its side with the spark plugs adjacent to one's left foot and the crankshaft, transmission and driveshaft along the right side of the bike. With the help of the internet, I dug in and began to service and prepare this beast in anticipation of Jim's arrival...now scheduled for September 6th. 

As one might expect, the infamous Mr. Murphy and his surprises began to emerge. A seized cooling fan taught me that Bavarian Motor Werks believes a small piece of plastic with an electric motor and a propeller is worth $349. An eBay motorcycle dismantler sold me one for $75. When it finally arrived, it didn't work and he woud not take it back. Off to eBay's "dispute resolution center" and hopefully an eventual refund. In the meantime, a South Carolina purveyor, with the compelling tradename "Beemer Boneyard," had the bare fan motor, new, in a Bosch box, for $79. With the help of another neighbor, I refurbished the old fan with a new motor. Remembering how all the plastic bodywork of the full-fairing RT model screwed back together was another probem all together.

In the middle of all this, September 6th arrived, and at 7:00 PM Jim pulled into my garage. He had ridden 13 hours from Virginia via 2-lane roads and had to be lifted from the bike and served Advil for supper. Around midnight on September 10th, I finally had everything on my end ready to go. Again, Advil was a helpful adjunct. 

Tuesday, September 11th was seconds away. We were to set out at 6:00 AM, due north for St. Ignace, Michigan and the great Mackinak Bridge, where we would turn left, into the sun, and head west as far as US Route 2 would take us. Our only plan was to get across the "Going-to-the-Sun Road" and the high Rocky Moutain continental divide at Glacier National Park near the Canadian border before it closed on September 17th.

I knew Jim would expect the red carpet treatment

No one told me all used K-bikes have seized cooling fans

The inimitable "Uncle" Jimmy:
Packed and nowhere to go

It all started one evening on the Chesapeake Bay, sitting on the sailboat my brother-in-law calls home,  enjoying an IPA from the nearby St. George's Brewing Co. We may have been enjoying several crafty brews although he claims his Adkins diet only has room for Micholob Ultra.

I had recently returned from a 10-week excursion on a KLR 650 "enduro" motorcycle through Mexico's fabulous Copper Canyon and Guatemala's Peten jungle, where I celebrated my birthday and the spring equinox with indigenous Mayans at the remote observatory ruins of Uaxactun. Jim had just retired from a career building aircraft carriers at the Newport News Shipbuilding Co.

This was not an easy job and one can understand that a few beers on the back of a sailboat were in order. Our conversation eventually drifted to the notion of his buying a motorcycle himself. This could serve as a relaxing diversion in a life that already included a wife, two dogs, a house four hours from where he worked, a grandchild, a 36-foot sailboat, yacht club responsibilities, and a fly-yellow Austin Healey "Bug-Eye" Sprite which he purchased from me after a very similar conversation,  under somewhat the same 
circumstances, three years earlier. We concluded that were he to sell the sports car, a temporal niche would indeed be created in his life as a retired Southern gentleman. This little hollow could easily accommodate a motorcycle. It would also keep him alert, enhance his balance, and further expose him to the elements sailors so dearly treasure.  Let's have another IPA.

Sometime before turning in, the topic of cross-country travel on two wheels emerged quite innocently and I apparently agreed that it would be a capital idea for the two of us to visit his brother in Colorado next summer and even go out to the Pacific and have a glass of wine with his cousin in Mendocino. The gravity of this "commitment" was brought to my attention by my wife, Carol, the following morning. Her brother, Jim, was a man of few words, acted on his decisions, and did not indulge in idle speculation. Whether I remembered the conversation or not, I was likely to be riding west by June.

Four weeks later, a phone call from Virginia informed me the Sprite had been sold and a dozen two-wheeled replacements had already been researched on Craigslist. Carol suggested I mount a snow tire on one of my motorcycles: her brother would never be able to wait until next summer. Sure enough, the next phone call from Jim revealed he was driving to Charlottesville the next day to look at a classic "airhead" BMW R100RT very similar to a bike I had ridden to Nova Scotia 15 years earlier. I suggested he carefully examine the owner's garage for signs of moto-enthusiasm, tools or other indicators of mechanical aptitude, factory shop manuals on hand, maintenance receipts neatly filed, yard tidy and lawn mower clean. The next call from Jim reported the seller owned a Jaguar and a Ducati, did all of his own work, and was willing to service the bike before the sale. Moreover, the spray cans, oil bottles, and miscellaneous shop supplies were arranged on metal shelves in his garage, and all of the labels were facing the same way. Oh, boy.

By the first of August, Jim had taken the Motorcycle Safety Foundation riders' course, gotten his license, bought a helmet, riding gear, camping supplies, and memberships in the Airheads Beemer Club and the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America. He was riding 100 miles a day "to get in shape," and lurking on various motorcycle internet forums. Carol suggested I forget about "next summer"-- Jimmy would be here any day.