If you’re looking for a golden adventure riding opportunity, the Black Hills BDR-X marks the spot. Backcountry Discovery Routes are adventure/dual‑­sport routes that typically cover entire states and take about a week to complete, with GPS tracks and helpful info provided for free by the nonprofit BDR organization. In addition to its main routes, BDR has mapped out several shorter BDR-­X loop routes that can be completed in a few days.

Scan QR code above or click here to view the route on REVER

Located in western South Dakota, the Black Hills area is known for its scenic beauty, curvy roads, and historic sites like Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Memorial. When most motorcyclists think of the Black Hills, they think of the Sturgis rally, which brings upwards of 500,000 people to the region every August.

The Black Hills BDR-X is a 355‑­mile mostly off‑­road loop that starts and ends in Keystone, just a few miles east of Mount Rushmore, and is divided into three sections. Backcountry Discovery Routes recommends riding the Black Hills BDR-­X counterclockwise, but since it’s a loop, you can start and finish anywhere along the route and run it in either direction.

What makes the Black Hills BDR-X such a perfect adventure route is its variety. The landscape includes rugged mountains, dense forests, and wide‑­open prairies. The route passes through historic towns like Deadwood, Mystic, and Hill City, as well as public lands such as Wind Cave National Park and Custer State Park.

There are great campgrounds or more luxurious lodging available. You’re never far from civilization, so you can get away from it all yet still have access to gas stations, stores, restaurants, and hotels. The BDR-X route includes flowing gravel and dirt roads, challenging two‑­track, and some of the area’s best paved roads, including Spearfish Canyon Road, Needles Highway, and Iron Mountain Road.

Setting the Hook

Last July, I joined three of my CFMOTO USA colleagues – Reid Strait, Daniel Dégallier, and Bill Baker – at Get On ADV Fest, a four‑­day adventure‑­bike rally in the Black Hills where we introduced the Ibex 800 T adventure bike. There was plenty of off‑­road riding involved, and REVER provided excellent tracks for the event.

Related: 2023 CFMOTO Ibex 800 T | Road Test Review 

The riding was so good, we were inspired to return in September and be among the first to ride the new Black Hills BDR-­X. The stars aligned when we learned that Rally for Rangers, a nonprofit organization that raises funds to support park rangers, would be hosting an event in the Black Hills at the same time (see sidebar below). CFMOTO USA provided Ibex 800 Ts for the guides to use during the event, along with a Papio minibike for cruising around the campground.  

After we delivered the bikes to the event, we spent the next few days riding the Black Hills BDR-­X to do some team bonding. Reid rode an Ibex 800 T, but the rest of us rode our personal bikes: Bill on a KTM 690 Enduro R, Daniel on a Royal Enfield Himalayan, and me on a Kawasaki KLX 300.

Black Hills BDR-X: 4 Riders, 4 Bikes, 4 Days

We may have different tastes in bikes, but we all agree on one thing: The Black Hills BDR-X is fantastic. It’s 355 miles of adventure motorcycling bliss. In terms of difficulty, I’d rate it 4 or 5 on a scale of 1‑­10. (I’ve also ridden the Mid Atlantic BDR, which I’d rate an easy 2 or 3.) Every day of the BDR-­X was filled with moments of euphoria, which crystallized into memories that we’ll share around the campfire for years to come.

Related: Backcountry Discovery Routes Announces Economic Impact of BDR Routes

During one part of the ride, the sun overhead was radiant, casting a warm, autumn glow. The steady, gentle crunch of gravel under my tires never got old, nor did the scenery. Towering cliffs with rough textures contrasted with the vivid foliage below. The curves and bends unfurled before me, each one as breathtaking as the last. It was a sensory feast, as if Mother Nature took out her paintbrush, mixed up an impossibly diverse palette of rich colors, and painted a masterpiece. At higher elevations, the hills were ablaze in scarlet, amber, and gold, while it was a verdant wonderland down below. I was tempted to ride faster, but I slowed down, smelled the pines, and savored the experience.

Black Hills Gold

If you love off‑­road adventure riding, you’ll love the Black Hills BDR-X, which was like discovering a vein of gold. There’s gravel, rocky two‑­track, mud, and epic pavement. There’s majestic scenery, wildlife, and history. You can’t see and do it all in one trip, so like the four of us, you’ll want to come back. It’s fun but by no means a stroll in the park, and it’s the difficult stuff that sticks with you for a lifetime.

On Day 3, it was raining, and we opted to do the optional hard section over Bear Mountain. The route was rutted, rocky, steep two‑­track. The slick mud packed up on our tires, turning them into Teflon‑­coated slicks. Bill christened this spur route “Axle Grease Alley.” On the final bit, I chose my line and went for it, twisting the throttle to the stop, desperate for the tires to hook up, every muscle in my body fighting to keep me and the Kawasaki upright. After I made it to the top, Reid gave me a thumbs‑­up and said, “Brad, you looked like a flailing Kool‑­Aid man. Next time keep your feet on the pegs!”

Happily, we all made it through the toughest sections in one piece. Despite the struggle and the chaos, even with our bikes and bodies caked in mud, we were grinning from ear to ear. Daniel’s quick thinking led us to a car wash in Custer, where we pressure‑­washed our bikes and could again recognize which was which. Cost? A few quarters. Memories? Priceless.

Rally for Rangers Sidebar

The mission of Rally for Rangers is “to protect the world’s special places by empowering rangers around the world with new motorcycles and equipment.” It has provided more than 160 motorcycles and equipment for rangers in parks in distant places like Mongolia, Argentina, Nepal, Bhutan, Peru, and Namibia.

The first Rally for Rangers USA event took place last September in South Dakota’s Black Hills National Forest and Pine Ridge Reservation. Fifteen adventure riders raised nearly $40,000 before convening in Custer State Park for a weekend of camping, riding, visiting tribal park rangers, and donating equipment and funds to protect parks and forests.

Traditional Rally for Rangers events are two‑­week international journeys, but the USA rallies are held over a long weekend. The Black Hills event donated night vision optics for tribal rangers of the Oglala Sioux Parks to conduct nighttime anti‑­poaching patrols. A donation was also made to the Forest Service motorized trails program to support motorcycle‑­only trails in the Black Hills National Forest.

Riders in this inaugural event hailed from all over the U.S., with some trailering their bikes and others renting from Rogue Moto or using demo bikes provided by CFMOTO. The weekend included off‑­road training by Heavy Enduro as well as on- and off‑­road riding on Needles Highway, portions of the Black Hills BDR‑­X, and otherwise inaccessible trails on the Pine Ridge Reservation hosted by the Oglala Sioux rangers.

The Black Hills Rally for Rangers event takes place again in September 2024 to support Oglala Sioux and Northern Cheyenne tribal rangers. For more information, visit the Rally For Rangers website or listen to our interview with Rally for Rangers co‑­founder Tom Medema on the Rider Magazine Insider Podcast.

Black Hills BDR-X Resources:

• South Dakota Tourism
• Black Hills & Badlands
• Backcountry Discovery Routes

The post Riding South Dakota’s Black Hills BDR-X appeared first on Rider Magazine.

In May 1974, my wife and I, then students at Baylor University in Texas, took advantage of the break between semesters to ride two-up on a 1971 Triumph Daytona T100R from Waco, Texas, to the California coast – our first long-distance adventure together.

At the time, we had been married for three years. I was a doctoral student in clinical psychology and worked part-time at a Gulf filling station, largely because the McDonalds next door gave free Big Macs to the Gulf employees. My wife was an undergraduate majoring in liberal arts and journalism as well as a photographer. For our trip, she packed rolls of black-and-white film and strapped a tripod on the back of the bike. We had no saddlebags or storage compartments. For a trip of 4,200-plus miles over 18 days, we traveled light: helmets, jackets, a change of clothes, a few tools and chain oil, and photo gear.

I had handpainted my Bell 500TX helmet with red, white, and blue stripes and affixed a small peace-sign-with-stars decal on each side. Hidden inside the helmet were the words “free, to be, to become” – my mantra then and now.

With no cellphones or GPS, our “navigation” was a Kawasaki Good Times Vacation Guide and Road Atlas strapped on top of my clothes bag, which was bungee-corded to the gas tank.

The Triumph Daytona was produced from 1967-1974 and had an air-cooled 490cc parallel-Twin with a 4-speed gearbox, chain final drive, drum brakes, and a kickstarter that could definitely kick back. It had a right-hand throttle, left-hand front brake, right-foot gear shifter, and a left-foot rear brake.

The single weak headlight, taillight, and Smith gauges were illuminated by the electronics of Joseph Lucas – aka the “Prince of Darkness.” Night riding with Joseph with no lights was a frequent thrill!

My Triumph Daytona was a piece of British driftwood in a Japanese sea of Hondas, Yamahas, Kawasakis, and Suzukis. The ride was like a runaway jackhammer on the interstate, but over the course of the trip, the Triumph performed flawlessly, dripping just a drop or two of oil on the ground and only needing its chain lubed.

For the first 300 miles of the trip, hot headwinds of 20-30 mph buffeted us. Looking in the mirrors, I couldn’t see the whites of my eyes – only red.

The Triumph had no odometer or gas gauge for its 2.5-gallon tank. At one point, the engine sputtered, and I knew we were running out of gas. I reached down under the tank and switched on the reserve petcock, and the engine fired back up. We were good for maybe 6 miles, but the closest town was 15 miles away.

When the bike sputtered again and gradually coasted to a stop by the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, I thought we were cooked. But in a stroke of deus ex machina, a Texas Highway Department truck appeared as if in a mirage, stopped, and had a full gas can. We couldn’t believe our good fortune and were so grateful!

We would end up topping off the gas tank several times in Texas at an average of 57 cents per gallon. Motel rooms ranged from $8 to $9 per night. 

In New Mexico, we saw the Rio Grande with Mexico on the other side. Globe, Arizona, was all about copper, silver, and gold mining – ruggedly beautiful mountain country. 

In California, we rode from Laguna Beach up the coast. One of the best roads was State Route 1 from Cambria up through Big Sur to San Francisco. My focus alternated from the blue ocean to the curvy switchback-filled two-laner cut into the side of the mountains high above the sea.

The Golden Gate Bridge was a high point of our journey. In the bright sun, the painted steel looked golden orange above the dark blue water. As we approached the entrance – surprise! – a BSA pulled up right beside us. Two English bikes riding side by side on the Golden Gate Bridge. What a rush. I still get a big smile thinking about it. We rode back and forth a couple of times across the bridge – we just couldn’t get enough – and with no fairing, totally exposed, it felt like we were flying, suspended in air, over the ocean.

Then we rode inland and up into the Sierra Nevada to Lake Tahoe, where we touched snow in 70-degree weather at 7,000 feet. It was hard to make a snowball, but we climbed partway up a mountain and slid down a snowbank.

From Tahoe, we rode through Nevada on U.S. Route 50, known as “The Loneliest Road in America.” There were no houses, stores, gas stations, signs, animals, birds, or crickets, only the vast expansiveness of wide-open valleys. I felt direct, pure, unadulterated contact with Mother Earth. My yell was rapidly engulfed by the vastness with not a trace of an echo returning to me.

We continued southeast into Utah and Arizona, through the Hopi Indian Reservation, and later stayed at the lodge on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, a source of great energy. Looking down through the layers of the Earth, I could feel its raw, latent power. So this is what you’ve been hiding from me as I walk on top of you! I thought. Even stripped naked, with all its layers worn and peeled away, the Earth demanded respect, if not awe.

The Smith odometer on the Triumph Daytona showed 11,225 miles at the start of the trip and 15,429 miles at the end, for a total of 4,204 miles. I recorded each day’s mileage in a small notebook. The shortest riding day was 217 miles, the longest was 453, and four of the five trip days averaged 350-plus miles.

Fifty years later – despite my wife and I living on food stamps during the years we were both in school, running out of gas numerous times, riding in bone-freezing cold, and riding in the night with no lights – the photographer and the author who took that trip in 1974 are still two-up, now alternating positions, on this magical mystery tour and adventure called life.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

The post Two-Up on a 1971 Triumph Daytona from Texas to California appeared first on Rider Magazine.

As a young motorcyclist, I discovered BMW by accident. In the summer of 2003, I was cruising along the Blue Ridge Parkway on my 1998 Harley-Davidson Sportster 1200 Custom, a violent jackhammer of a bike that was crude, loud, and spectacularly uncomfortable. The sun was about to set as I pulled into a motorcycle-friendly campground. After parking my bike, I saw a large crowd gathered around a blazing fire, listening intently to a presentation. I approached curiously and was soon in rapt attention myself.

The speakers were Chris and Erin Ratay, who were wrapping up a four-year, 101,322-mile circumnavigation of the planet aboard a pair of BMW F 650s, a trip that earned a Guinness World Record for the longest distance traveled by a couple on two motorcycles. I had stumbled upon the last stop on the Ratays’ “ultimate journey” before they returned home to New York.

Of course, the globetrotting couple shared interesting tales of adventure travel, but the theme they kept coming back to was the indestructability of their BMWs. Their bikes were on display, and everyone at camp scrutinized them carefully. After four years traversing 50 countries on six continents, both F 650s looked as though they had been dropped from an aircraft at 30,000 feet, crash-landed on jagged rockface, set on fire with napalm, and then run over by a battalion of Abrams tanks. Yet both started instantly and ran with the precision of a fine Swiss watch.

Juxtaposed against my primitive Sportster, the contrast in terms of modern engineering and stout reliability couldn’t be clearer. I began studying BMWs and fell in love with the R 75/5 that Clement Salvadori wrote about in the pages of Rider (Retrospective, April 1991; I also recently wrote my own Retrospective: BMW /5 Series – 1970-1973). I soon had a 1973 long-wheelbase Monza Blue R 75/5 Toaster in my garage, and it was a revelation. Despite its age, it was so quiet, so smooth, and so stable at speed. That motorcycle, with its quirky air-cooled flat-Twin “boxer” motor and bizarre but practical styling, was my gateway drug into the wonderful world of BMW motorcycles. And what a journey it’s been!

Over the past 20 years, I’ve owned or co-owned 11 BMWs ranging in age from a 1971 R 60/5 to a 2020 R 1250 GS. I’ve put well over 200,000 combined miles on them, traveling all over the U.S. and Canada. All of them have been supremely functional, which isn’t surprising given the company’s storied history of engineering innovations. BMW has given us hydraulically damped forks as well as the first production versions of a nose fairing, a full fairing, a single-sided swingarm, anti-lock brakes, and of course, BMW’s proprietary Paralever and Telelever suspension systems, among many other innovations.

BMWs are generally overengineered, sometimes to a fault, but the company’s rabid fan base of high-mileage riders has come to respect the brand as representative of some of the finest motorcycles available at any price.

However, what I appreciate more than the motorcycles themselves is the BMW community of riders. They’re a wildly diverse group of mostly professionals, skewing heavily toward the intellectual and analytical gearheads that I feel most at home with. Every BMW group I’ve spent time with emphasizes riding competence and safety. BMW is a marque that appeals to serious riders, as reflected by the odometers one sees at any of the brand’s big rallies: 100,000-plus miles on bikes that are only a few years old is a common sight.

One hundred years of continuous production is a stellar accomplishment for any company, especially for a brand that has been considered a niche manufacturer for much of its history. But in recent years, BMW Motorrad has branched out beyond its traditional touring and adventure bikes to produce models such as high-performance sportbikes and electric scooters, which would have been unthinkable when I started riding BMWs 20 years ago. It’s going to be fascinating to see where the next 100 years take us!

See all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here.

The post Confessions of a BMW Addict appeared first on Rider Magazine.

When I’m traveling and tell other riders that I’m from Tennessee, they tell me they’re jealous. They talk about how lucky I am to live in a state with so many fantastic riding roads through the Great Smokies. However, before last summer, I had to shamefully admit I’d never ridden in East Tennessee.

I got the opportunity to change that in June when I needed some photos for my CFMOTO 450SS review. I’d get to spend a couple days away from the desk, experience Appalachian riding, put some miles on the test bike, and get paid for it! Talk about a win‑­win‑­win‑­win.

As with most trips, this one didn’t go as smoothly as planned.

I ran into my first hiccup just past Nashville. When I stopped to pull up directions for the next leg of my journey, my phone’s map wouldn’t load. I also wasn’t able to call or text. I didn’t know where I needed to go other than in a general southeast direction.

Unable to rely on my phone for navigation, I stopped at gas stations along the way to ask locals for directions. Most were happy to help, and some were so happy that they took half an hour to tell me their own motorcycling stories. I enjoyed these interactions, but it was getting late, and I was still a long way from 129 Cabins in Robbinsville, North Carolina, where I’d be staying.

When night fell, I was on the highway that would take me directly to the cabin, and I started to relax. Then I saw a sign that read “Motorcycles: High crash area next 11 miles.” Before I knew it, I was on the Tail of the Dragon.

Those 11 miles with their 318 curves were the longest I’ve ever ridden. It was pitch dark with no other cars, bikes, or signs of human presence. The LED lights on the 450SS are great, but they shine in front of the bike while the road snaked away from where the headlight was pointed. I was also afraid of deer popping out from the woods since they’re a big cause of accidents in my area.

A stretch of road that many riders travel across the world to experience was a nuisance to me. I felt some guilt about that, but all I wanted was to get to my cabin in one piece. And eventually, I did.

After a delightful photoshoot with Killboy the next day, it was time to head home. My phone started working again after a simple restart, but the return trip took just as long as getting there. I dodged storms for hours, ducking into gas stations to keep the laptop in my backpack dry when rain poured down. When the skies cleared, the temperatures rose from 65 degrees to 98 with 100% humidity. Sitting on the interstate in stand‑­still traffic with no airflow in that kind of heat was draining.

Related: Killboy | Ep. 53 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast

I finally made it home, and after a cold shower, I felt better. When my husband got home from work, I told him all about the storms and the heat and the traffic, filling his poor ears with complaints. Then I remembered riding along the Ocoee River. The rain had stopped for a while, and the temperature was just right. Mountains were rising on either side of me, and the river rushed by as kayakers navigated the rough whitewater. I remembered all the wonderful roads I’d sampled during the photoshoot, how much fun I had with the photographers, and how welcoming and peaceful the cabin was. And I knew I’d make this journey again, although with a little more preparation next time.

Riding is living times 10. There’s always something to complain about, but the beauty to be found is worth it.

The post The Ups and Downs of My First East Tennessee Motorcycle Ride appeared first on Rider Magazine.

West of Gunnison, Colorodo, U.S. Route 50 was closed. We’d seen signs about the closure for at least 100 miles. Those signs were for other people, right? We’d planned to stay on the famous Colorado byway through the Grand Mesa, Uncompahgre and Gunnison National Forests as long as we could. But as we approached Gunnison, our shoulders slumped with the reality that the signs were for us. We’d have to rethink our whole route. And the weather was starting to look iffy.

Scan QR code above or click here to view the route on REVER

At the Gunnison County Chamber of Commerce, a note taped to the door underscored the closure. We went inside, paper roadmap in hand. At the desk, the clerk proffered her own map, opening it in front of us. She and John pored over it like kids seeking clues to lost treasure.

She confirmed that U.S. 50 was closed and suggested State Route 149 instead. It had less traffic and was more beautiful, she assured us. We compared her map to the Butler map for the region. (Butler Motorcycle Maps highlight the best roads, rating them on twisties, traffic, road surface, etc.) SR‑­149 was G1 (gold), Butler’s highest rating – perfect!

After filling our water bottles, we headed to the gas station. SR‑­149 is quite rural, so we wanted to be prepared. As John filled our tanks and I surveyed the darkening skies, a bolt of lightning ripped through the clouds. Thunder crackled. A guy next to us gassing up his pickup was watching too.

“Hope you’re not going that way,” he said, nodding toward the storm.

“Not anymore,” I said.

We paid for our gas as the storm clouds gathered closer and closer. Thunder rumbled, and lightning struck from cloud to ground in the near distance. We sped back to the park next to the Chamber and ran for the cover of a gazebo. Just as we stepped under, buckets of rain dumped from the sky, and lightning dashed all around us. The thunder was so loud that we ducked our heads each time it clapped.

Celebrating our excellent timing, we stretched out to nap on top of the picnic tables just as two vans arrived and disgorged two dozen kids. It was the local mountain‑­biking camp escaping the weather. We were instantly surrounded by kids eating popsicles and playing a raucous game of tag. Now each thunderclap was accompanied by the ear‑­piercing screams of prepubescent mountain bikers. One of the camp counselors checked in on our welfare, asked about the bikes, and offered popsicles, which we accepted.

The lightning eventually abated, though the rain drizzled on. The camp counselors packed their charges and drove away. We wrestled into rainsuits and got back on the road.

Related: C. Jane Taylor | Ep. 45 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast

SR‑­149 was as wonderful as described: a narrow, almost abandoned two‑­lane road snaking seductively through the San Juan Mountains and the Rio Grande National Forest. The weather was cold and drizzling, but the road was curvy, and the air smelled like earth and springtime in New England. We were in motorcycle heaven.

Ten miles down the road, oncoming cars flashed their headlights, gesturing to slow down. Thinking they were trying to warn us about a cop, I laughed. It had taken me five years to get up to the speed limit. We continued with caution until a mudslide stopped us in our tracks. If we hadn’t been wearing helmets, we would have scratched our heads in a “Now what?” gesture. Like U.S. 50, it seemed SR‑­149 would soon be closed too, but we gingerly traversed the shallow edge of the slide at the far‑­left side of the road. Alert to the changes in road surface and rambunctious streams in the gullies flanking the road, we pushed forward like children anticipating candy at Halloween.

Instead of candy, we sought groceries as we rolled into Lake City and its tiny country store whose proprietors seemed to be a badly mismatched couple. The woman in long braids glared at us as if we’d tracked mud onto her freshly mopped floor, while the man – handsome in a Willie Nelson kind of way, if Willie Nelson could be considered handsome – happily greeted us, teasing about our florescent green rainsuits. “We are not men, we are Devo,” he joked in a robotic voice referencing the ’70s New Wave band famous for their quirky spaceman costumes. We bought vegetables, tortillas, and cheese for quesadillas we would cook once we found a campsite for the night.

Lake City is an eye‑­blink of an old mining town with the down‑­at‑­heel aspect of a climate-change ski resort in shoulder season. The cold, damp weather did not bring any charm to the Grizzly Adams cabins lining the road.

I attributed the town’s creepiness to its horror‑­movie sepia tones and bad weather, but I later learned that Lake City gained notoriety in 1875 when Alferd Packer, the “Colorado Cannibal,” was charged with killing and eating the prospectors he’d been hired to guide through the San Juan Mountains after the group had become snowbound. In the spring, five bodies with human teeth marks were found at the foot of Slumgullion Pass. Lake City’s Hinsdale County Museum has an extensive collection of Packer memorabilia, including a skull fragment from one of his victims and several buttons from the clothes of the five men he ate. The area where the bodies were discovered is now known as Cannibal Plateau. Odder still, the area hosts an annual Alferd Packer Jeep Tour and Barbecue.

My unease was supplanted by the fear and exhilaration of climbing out of town along steep, wet switchbacks to Windy Point Observation Site and Slumgullion Pass. As we climbed, I chimed into the headset, “Don’t look right, Johnny.” The narrow two‑­lane highway had no guardrail, and the drop-off induced a vertigo that made me tighten my grip on my handlebar and tank. At Windy Point, we stopped to look back at the long narrow valley thousands of feet below us.

Evening was approaching, and we were still in the middle of a sheer climb on our way to North Clear Creek Campground, a destination we were not sure even existed, but the sky finally opened, and the tight switchbacks loosened as we topped 11,530‑­foot Slumgullion Pass.

The map we consulted – and re‑­consulted – showed the campground within 50 miles. Trying to keep from being swept up in the National Geographic beauty of the broadening landscape, I kept my eyes peeled for a Forest Service campground sign. We were hungry and cold, and it was getting late. We’d passed so little traffic, I was game to pitch the tent at the side of the road, but John persisted.

We finally turned off SR‑­149 and crossed a cattle guard onto Forest Road 510, which fell away to vertiginous Class‑­IV switchbacks. I groaned but also laughed. It was the “dropping hour.” We have a joke that on extended motorcycle trips, we often face the most challenging miles of the day right before arriving at our destination exhausted and hungry. The road toyed with us. I inched down its sharp gravel turns, determined but cautious given the hour. As I eased down one hill, a young woman on a dirtbike blasted up it. Encouraged that there might be an actual campground ahead and inspired by another woman on a bike, I sped all the way up to 2nd gear!

After almost missing the 70‑­degree turn into the campground at the bottom of the hill and duck‑­walking the bikes back over sandy gravel ruts, we casually rolled into the nearly vacant campground and found a suitable spot with a picnic table, breathtaking panoramic views, and a glorious sunset reflected off the peaks of the Rio Grande National Forest.

The next morning was cold and clear. With visions of coffee and pastries dancing in our helmets, we headed toward Creede, home to an underground mining museum, the Mineral County Landfill, a cemetery, a chapel, and an excellent little food truck/coffee shop that appeared to be set up during the pandemic like a one‑­way street, with one entrance and one exit. The pastry case was filled with buttery French confections, the air with the scent of espresso. Bon appétit! We took our pastries to a table outside where we lounged, sipping cappuccinos in the sun.

The road along the Rio Grande – which far downstream serves as the border between Texas and Mexico – was as good as the croissants. At South Fork, we headed south on U.S. Route 160 and climbed to 10,856‑­foot Wolf Creek Pass. It was cold at elevation, and we encountered traffic and threatening weather, but the road was smooth, wide, and curvy through Pagosa Springs and Chimney Rock. We lunched in Durango after a torrential downpour trapped us under a busy highway underpass.

U.S. 160 through the mountains near Hesperus Ski Area was fabulous despite the cold and wet. Things got warmer as we descended out of the mountains, and by the time we got to Mancos, we were sweltering in the heat of the desert. We took off as much as we could and poured cold water down the backs of our armored jackets. Body temperature management was a challenge we had improved at over time.

In the blazing heat, we headed west on State Route 184 toward Dolores, then north on U.S. Route 491 past Yellow Jacket and into Canyons of the Ancients National Monument, administered by the Bureau of Land Management and inhabited almost solely by spirits. The road narrowed and then narrowed again. There is something gritty and fundamental about these small roads, something secret and unspoken like the second indents of an outline of one’s life or the dark side of the moon.

The heat kept building. As we crossed into Utah, the landscape gave way to a barren, flat emptiness without trees or buildings. We traveled in silent awe, feeling exposed in the heat but excited about the ruins of Hovenweep National Monument.

Known for six groups of Ancestral Puebloan villages, Hovenweep contains evidence of occupation by hunter‑­gatherers from 8,000 B.C. until AD 200. We were finally going to visit the spirits we’d been sensing on this hot road.

We turned into what seemed the middle of nowhere, but John assured me this was the way. I saw only shrubs, grasses, and sage until I glimpsed a sign the size of a sheet of paper with an arrow proving him right: Hovenweep National Monument. We traversed a lunar landscape of sand, craters, dead volcanoes, and lava flows until we happened upon a herd of wild horses in the middle of the road. We stopped to gape. Shy and beautiful, they paused in their grazing to examine us. Though I wanted to join these beasts on a romanticized journey out of a dream, we had to keep moving. Standing still in the late afternoon heat was a torture neither of us wanted to endure – magical, wild horses notwithstanding.

Reminiscent of Death Valley with its lethal sun, long straightaways, and distant bluffs, Hovenweep Road also reminded me of the song by America “A Horse with No Name.” I started to understand the line “In the desert, you can’t remember your name.” In the heat and arid sameness of the landscape, time seemed to stop. I could tell we were moving, if only for the visual cue of the scenery receding in my mirror. I became flooded with the eerie sensation of being watched. It felt as if the ghosts of millennia were hovering just above the heat waves upwelling from the macadam.

“Hovenweep” is a Paiute/Ute word meaning “deserted valley.” As we rode into the scorched campground, I sensed that the ancestors were still there. A clan of attentive ravens seemed to be protectors – or just eager to see what food they could liberate from us.

After pouring rationed water onto our heads and down our backs, we hiked off to see the ruins, following a faint path between rock walls leading to a dry creek bed. Walking fast to beat the setting sun, we climbed down into the creek bed then up the other side until we saw what looked like a crumbling brick silo. Hovenweep at last! As we gazed in silence at the majestic ruins of a once‑­lively community, a rainbow broke through distant storm clouds. Back at our campsite, we cooked dinner in the waning light as a million stars began to wink.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

The post Riding From Gunnison, Colorado, to Hovenweep National Monument appeared first on Rider Magazine.

My first motorcycle was a 1980 Honda CM400E. It wasn’t fast, and the brakes were lousy, but it delivered some memorable rides. One ride was notably short, but it made a lasting impact on a special family friend.

Raymond was the younger brother of my father’s close friend and colleague. It was challenging for Raymond to communicate with words, but there was one message he always conveyed with crystal clarity: He loved motorcycles.

I discovered this one afternoon when I arrived at my parents’ house riding my Honda CM400E. Raymond was visiting, and he was mesmerized. I shut off the motor, but he kept the motor noises going: “Vroom! Vroom!” We were happy to see each other, but what mattered to him most in that moment was one simple fact: I had arrived on a motorcycle.

Raymond’s big brother James, who had stopped by to talk shop with my dad, came outside too. He directed Raymond to stand back from the bike because it would be hot. Raymond adjusted his distance but not his gaze, and that grin never left his face.

Discreetly, I asked James if I could take his brother for a ride, explaining what Raymond would need to do on a slow ride through my dad’s quiet neighborhood. Recognizing the impact my motorcycle was having on Raymond and placing his trust in me, James agreed.

“Raymond,” I asked, “do you want to go for a ride on the motorcycle?” He literally jumped at the invitation and looked to his brother for approval. James smiled his okay.

My spare helmet fit Raymond just fine. My dad’s leather jacket fit well enough. As we suited up, I talked with Raymond about what I was going to do – drive the motorcycle – and what he was going to do – sit still on the seat behind me. He understood.

While I sat on the front seat and held the bars steady, James helped Raymond grab my shoulders, slide his leg over the seat, and drop into position behind me. Snugged in between my back and the sissy bar (remember those?), Raymond bounced with anticipation.

“Now listen, buddy,” I said, “you have to sit tight!” Perhaps interpreting my words as a request for him to hold tightly onto me, he wrapped his arms around my skinny midsection and squeezed. Raymond seemed confident with this approach, and he sure was eager to ride.

I started the motor, gave that little Twin some throttle, and turned onto the street for a leisurely ride with no reason to shift out of 2nd gear. It took the better part of five minutes to make a mile loop, and Raymond howled his excitement the whole time.

As we pulled back into the driveway, my mother snapped a photograph that ended up on the refrigerator at Raymond’s house, where it stayed, gradually fading, for decades. James would tell me how Raymond showed the picture to people who came to visit. “Everyone needs to see Raymond on the motorcycle,” he’d say. When I’d bump into a mutual friend elsewhere, conversations often started like this: “Raymond still won’t let me sit down until I go see the picture of him on that motorbike with you!”

That photo is now gone, and sadly so is Raymond, but his memory helps me hold onto valuable life lessons I learned from his family over many years. He is burned into my heart, notably because of one joyous ride we shared on my old 400. Here’s to short rides with long impact.

See more stories from Scott A. Williams here.

The post The Long Impact of a Short Ride on a 1980 Honda CM400E appeared first on Rider Magazine.

It came to me in the middle of the night, as most great ideas do: I would take an India motorcycle trip, crossing from north to south. My route would take me from the mountains of Ladakh to the valleys of Kashmir, into bustling Rajasthan, over the Western Ghats, and through the wet jungles of the South – a total distance of more than 4,500 miles. I would ride “Ullu,” my 2009 Royal Enfield Machismo 350 with an ongoing tappet issue, and my budget would be only 30,000 rupees (about $360).

See all of Rider‘s Royal Enfield coverage here.

The Northern Portion of My India Motorcycle Trip:

Manali – Leh – Jammu and Kashmir – Dharamshala

The path to Ladakh is a playground of natural beauty. It is also vast, with no mechanics or petrol stations en route.

I waded through rivers that reached my waist in Nubra Valley and coasted down the 21‑­hairpin Gata Loops at breathtaking speed. I reached the moonscape‑­like peak of Wari La Pass, was snowed on at Khardung La, and raced a herd of wild horses as they thundered down More Plains. I rode through a canyon with a sparkling river running through the center and tackled the treacherous 17,586‑­foot Chang La Pass. Ladakh was a dreamscape, and the surroundings changed drastically from fresh landslides to icy lakes to the legendary dunes of Pang. As far as an India motorcycle trip was concerned, I was in paradise.

The dirt road connecting Koksar to Kaza in Spiti Valley was a constant game of temporary fixes for Ullu: shoelaces through the wheel guard, a bungee cord around the exhaust pipe, and a snapped clutch lever repaired with duct tape. The terrain was a bone‑­shaking challenge from start to end, and vehicles littered the boulder‑­strewn paths in various states of breakdown.

Near the border of Pakistan, I steeled myself for two dangerous passes on National Highway 26 from Kashmir between Killar, Khajjiar, and Kishtwar. Both were closing soon due to forecasted snow, and I was determined to cross them off my list. The Cliffhanger was a tricky and dramatic ride on a road carved into a sheer cliff that’s 2,000 feet above the Chenab River.

Related Story from Ellie Cooper: Himalayan Cliffhanger | Riding India’s Death Road

Saach Pass, an endurance ride through deep forest to an ice‑­slicked desolate mesa, was a mix of endless clutch control and precise handling on the downhills. With such tantalizing terrain to explore, it was difficult to leave the North, but the rest of India beckoned me.

Rajasthan:

Dharamshala – Amritsar – Pushkar – Jaisalmer – Jodhpur – Udaipur 

I detoured into Pushkar to learn how to build a motorbike from scratch at my friend Mukesh’s garage. I spent a week drinking chai with a team of mechanics by the roadside, sharing communal meals on the garage floor, and learning how to replace clutch plates.

Every road from Punjab to Rajasthan was long and uneventful, but I was not so lucky when I started the next leg of my India motorcycle trip.

National Highway 11 toward Jaisalmer was a road of death, and the smell of various animals decomposing in the midday heat carried on the breeze. I saw mirages of great lakes that vanished as quickly as they appeared, and burnt‑­out vehicles lay overturned in the sand. The desert can be a strange place.

The winter winds on the highway toyed with everyone on the road. I fought against a side wind that buffeted me back and forth with such velocity that I gasped for air under my helmet. Six high‑­speed lorries – massive trucks in formation across two lanes – were inches away from my tires. On that road, it was suicidal to be so close to the edge with pushy trucks and a bullying wind, but I had no choice. I slowed my speed but started to be sucked under the gap between their wheels as my handlebar toggled ferociously with the pressure. I clipped the edge of the sand at 30 mph and went down.

I crawled on my hands and knees toward the bike a few meters from where I had landed on the concrete and hit the kill switch. Ullu received only a broken horn and a buckled wheel. My riding gear saved me from a worse fate, but I still had a dollop of whiplash and a mild concussion.

Jaisalmer was a beautiful place to recover. Determined to see deep desert, I rode out to catch the sunset, going until my wheels sank into endless sand. Later, as I lay back on Ullu’s seat and watched billions of stars in the inky‑­black sky, I reflected on how India is not an easy place to ride, but it was worth every near‑­miss.

Hoping for a bit of good fortune for the remainder of my India motorcycle trip, I sought out the Bullet Baba shrine on National Highway 65. It is one of 33 million Hindu deities and represents the legend of a local man who crashed into a tree and died and whose motorcycle found its way back to the crash site alone without keys or petrol. Locals flock to the site to ask for safe passage across India’s roads and offer whiskey in return. I visited the holy bike with a bottle stuffed into my backpack.

The final stop on my Rajasthan tour was Udaipur. I lazily wound through the undulating Aravalli hills of Kumbhalgarh in afternoon light and rode around the famous Rani Road at sunrise to see Rajasthan’s shining lakes. India was changing her look every few hundred miles, and I could not wait to see what the Western Ghats had to offer.

Udaipur – Mumbai – Pune – Goa – Ooty – Erivikulam – Munnar 

I entered Mumbai in Western India like a child pretending to be a racer. I was in a tide of hundreds of motorcycles at rush hour, all revving their engines impatiently. Without any warning, signaling, or light change, true to their name, the Bullets sped forward, each one racing the next. On wash day, the air smelled like a bucket of soap suds, and the whole city was brightly decorated.

I headed immediately for Mahabaleshwar, a hill station with luxurious views of the stunning Sahyadri range. With less than 2 liters of petrol after the hills, I bounced along the descent on badly broken road surfaces, glad that I had reduced the air in my tires. I sputtered into Goa on Christmas Day through a blanket of freezing sea mist. My present to my trusty steed was a full service and a week off.

The roads into Munnar are on every Indian traveler’s bucket list. I chose to ride through five national parks, relishing the gorgeous blue Nilgiri hills on all sides. In beautiful Ooty, I raced down 36 consecutive hairpins on the addictive downhills of the accident‑­prone Kalhatty Road. At one time, tourists were not permitted to ride it due to the complexity and danger of the epic turns.

I reached Munnar, where the oscillating route was full of seemingly endless tight corners and fast bends. It was some of the most perfect motorcycle riding I had ever experienced. Tea leaves were draped over the hills in a lime green patchwork quilt, knitted with care by whichever gods had imagined such a place.

Related: Ellie Cooper | Ep. 67 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast

The Western Ghats:

Munnar – Idukki – Kanyakumari

I dawdled through the coconut plantations of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, fingering the meager rupees left in my pocket and wondering if I would make it to the end. I was almost there, and it was probably because of the heat and fatigue at this point that I began to make mistakes. 

I took a wrong turn and had to explain to a very confused ranger why I was riding illegally in a tiger reserve. Ullu’s ignition cable suddenly came loose in the middle of the jungle, but again I was fortunate; a local reattached it with his teeth for free. Another time, I stopped to admire the view and carelessly knocked my bike keys into a pile of rubbish many feet down, and the whole village came running to help. Eventually, a tiny man with a hooked stick five times as long as he was tall came running to the rescue, grinning from ear to ear.

It hit me hard when I got to Kerala and saw the sign for Kanyakumari – the city at the southernmost tip of India – that my journey would soon end. Little moments of the trip replayed in my mind, from the icy dreamland of the Himalayas to brightly decorated Rajasthan to the sublime colors of the South. 

At the end of my India motorcycle trip, I sat atop Ullu and patted her tank, watching the sight I had been waiting for: the sun setting into the Arabian Sea. The next morning, sitting at the same spot, I watched the sun rise over the Bay of Bengal to the east.

Indian roads are a complex machine that operates on courage and trust, and I now understand the absurdity of them in their confusion and chaos. I learned that every breakdown is a chance for a new connection with a stranger; that many bike issues can be fixed with tin cans, rubber bands, or a mouthful of petrol; and that no matter how long the journey might take, there is always time for another chai.

See all of Rider‘s International Touring stories here.

The post An India Motorcycle Trip from Head to Toe appeared first on Rider Magazine.

It’s always fun to have a theme for a motorcycle tour, and my plan for a late August ride was a four-day loop from my home in Oklahoma to visit three historic hotels that are widely purported to be haunted. The first would be the St. James Hotel in Cimarron, New Mexico, followed by the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, Colorado, and finally the Eldridge Hotel in Lawrence, Kansas. Between the fright nights, I’d ride first-class mountain roads on a nearly 1,900-mile route through five states.

Scan QR code above or click here to view the route on REVER

One Hot Motorcycle Tour with a Side of Wind

To make time, I rode west on Interstate 40 for the first 150 miles or so. Wind turbines were spinning at a good clip, and flags at roadside businesses whipped around in the hot wind. I rode in what my buddies and I call “the I-40 lean” – riding with the bike pitched a few degrees to the left to counteract the constant gale.

It was nearly 100 degrees when I crossed into the panhandle of Texas, and the empty landscape was dotted with cattle and oil wells. When I stopped in Dalhart to refuel, a guy with long hair and a shaggy beard pulling two Harleys on a trailer behind a pickup asked where I was heading. After I shared my plan, he said he was heading home after riding many of the same roads.

Eyeing my Suzuki V-Strom 1050XT, he said he still owns a KTM he bought back in the ’90s when he was in Germany. “I spent three years there myself,” I said, “when I was in the Army.” Turns out we were stationed in some of the same places, decades ago, on the other side of the world. And here we were, on a sweltering afternoon in small-town Texas, talking motorcycles and swapping memories.

St. James Hotel

The temperature subsided a bit after crossing into New Mexico, where I rode through high plains grassland. North of Springer, I continued west on State Route 58, climbing into the foothills of the Rockies. Once in Cimarron, I parked in front of the St. James Hotel. Walking into the lobby felt like going back in time to the Old West of the late 1800s.

Built in 1872 near the Santa Fe Trail and originally known as Lambert’s Inn, this hotel was a favorite of Old West legends such as Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, Buffalo Bill Cody, Annie Oakley, Jesse James, and Billy the Kid.

During the lawless days of the Wild West, the hotel was the site of at least 26 murders; bullet holes are still visible over the bar in the hotel’s main dining room. Today, the St. James has 12 restored rooms in the original building, each named for a famous guest who stayed in the room, and 10 more rooms in a modern annex.

Several ghosts have been identified by paranormal experts in the St. James. Room 18 is off-limits because it is believed to house the malevolent ghost of Thomas James Wright, who was murdered after he won rights to the hotel in a poker game. The spirit of Mary Elizabeth Lambert, wife of the hotel’s founder, is said to be a protector of the hotel. She died there in 1926, and some say her rose-scented perfume still wafts through the hallways. There have been reports of a persistent tapping sound in Room 17, the mysterious smell of cigar smoke even though the hotel is nonsmoking, and sightings of a mischievous ghost resembling a little old man, nicknamed the “Little Imp,” who supposedly steals and relocates objects.

I stayed in the Pancho Griego room in the old building. Griego, a card dealer and local enforcer, picked a fight in the hotel’s saloon with gunslinger Clay Allison over the killing of Griego’s nephew. Unfortunately for Griego, he was a little (or a lot) drunk and took a bullet to the head from Allison’s gun. Would Griego’s restless spirit pay me a visit?  

After a nice dinner in the hotel restaurant, I turned in. I’ve stayed in supposedly haunted hotels all over the country going back at least 20 years, and I’ve never had a paranormal experience. But at the St. James, I was awakened at 3 a.m. – the so-called “witching hour” when the spirit world is said to be most active – by an unidentifiable foul odor that defied explanation (no, it wasn’t me).

A Motorcycle Tour on the Enchanted Circle

Continuing west on U.S. Route 64, I enjoyed flowing curves and yellow wildflowers as I rode through Cimarron Canyon State Park. Climbing out of the canyon revealed Eagle Nest Lake, an alpine lake above 8,000 feet near the Enchanted Circle Scenic Byway.

Turning north on State Route 38, I followed the byway toward the ski town of Red River. I knew this stretch of highway from many ski trips there with my wife and kids. The road meanders through the mountains, winding its way up to 9,820-foot Bobcat Pass and into Carson National Forest. Memories of those family trips rushed back – the cabins we stayed in, our favorite ski lifts and runs, the restaurants we liked, and the fun we had.

Crossing into Colorado, I rode over 9,426-foot La Veta Pass on U.S. Route 160 and then up through Colorado Springs and Denver. At Loveland, I turned west on U.S. Route 34 and enjoyed a winding ride through Big Thompson Canyon and Roosevelt National Forest to Estes Park.

See all of Rider‘s South Central U.S. tour stories here.

Stanley Hotel

After a 400-mile day, I arrived at the Stanley Hotel, which sits on a sprawling property with views of the city that serves as the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. When it opened in 1909, it rivaled the finest hotels in America. It was established by Freelan Stanley, who, along with twin brother Francis, co-founded the Stanley Motor Carriage Company, which manufactured steam-powered automobiles from 1897-1924. Freelan fell in love with the Estes Valley, in part because he believed the area helped restore his previously failing health. Early hotel guests were impressed by features such as electric lights, telephones, modern bathrooms, a uniformed staff, and a fleet of Stanley Steamers.

By the 1970s, the hotel was struggling but got a shot in the arm when it became known as the inspiration for Stephen King’s bestseller The Shining. The book may be fiction, but there are plenty of real-life ghost stories swirling around the Stanley.

After checking in, I took the vintage Otis elevator to my fourth-floor room, which was hot as hell – fitting. The front desk dispatched a service technician, and as he worked on the air conditioner, I quizzed him about the hotel’s ghostly reputation.

“Is there anything to the ghost stuff?”

“Yep, they’re here,” he said. “I had my first experience after I’d been here a few months – tapped me right on the shoulder, but there was nobody there.”

“Interesting…” I replied, feeling a little chill down my spine.

At twilight, I walked out front to admire the Stanley’s beautiful facade against the darkening sky and visit the mildly creepy hedge maze, disappointed that a frozen Jack Nicholson was nowhere to be found. Back inside, I peeked in the séance room. The place certainly looked haunted.

Although Stephen King’s frightful night was in Room 217, the fourth floor where I was staying is thought to be the most haunted part of the hotel. Guests in Room 407 have reported being tucked into bed by an invisible force, and the apparition of a cowboy has been reported in Room 428. But Room 401 is the creepiest – female guests have reported inappropriate “touching” by what is thought to be an unfriendly male ghost. After my unsettling experience at the St. James, learning about the paranormal activity that has occurred just down the hall from my room had my eyes wide open as I turned off the bedside lamp.

However, after a restful sleep undisturbed by the spirit world, I packed up and headed south on the Peak-to-Peak Scenic Byway, a beautiful, curvy mountain road that reminded me why I’m a motorcyclist. Thinking it couldn’t get any better, I was proven wrong on State Route 119 toward Boulder, which follows a burbling stream with high rock cliffs on both sides for 16 glorious miles.

The fun soon came to an end, and I steeled myself for a long, hot slog on Interstate 70 into Kansas. It was well after dark and I had clocked 652 miles for the day when I arrived in Lawrence for the last stop on my ghost tour.

Eldridge Hotel

Originally built in 1855 under the name Free State Hotel, the Eldridge Hotel was burned down twice because of its role as a focal point of anti-slavery sentiment. Each time it was burned, the hotel’s founder, Col. Shalor Eldridge, rebuilt it at the same site. In 1867, it was renamed the Eldridge Hotel, and through the turn of the 20th century, it was considered one of the finest hotels west of the Mississippi River.

The Eldridge Hotel also has a long history of paranormal activity. The fifth floor is thought to have a direct connection to the spirit world, with Room 506 at the epicenter. Guests have reported seeing apparitions, breath marks on mirrors, doors opening and closing by themselves, and lights mysteriously turning themselves on and off. The elevator is said to have its own ghost who erratically opens and closes the elevator doors.

I checked into Room 305, which is spacious with modern amenities, and got cleaned up. Later, I wandered downstairs and explored the lobby, bar, and basement. The Eldridge is a beautiful old hotel, and I felt the weight of its history. With that history in mind – some of it painful – I can see how the energy of the past may still be imprinted on this place.

I once again slept peacefully in the comfy bed and woke up early, anxious to get on the road home. The only possible evidence of mischievous spirits was that my television was stuck on the Hallmark Murders & Mysteries channel.

Some of the roads and stops on my Old West motorcycle tour could certainly be considered supernatural, but did the experience make a believer out of me? Until I can find a logical explanation for what happened to me at the St. James Hotel, the jury is out.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

The post An Old West Motorcycle Tour to 3 Haunted Hotels appeared first on Rider Magazine.

As a rider for over 50 years and writer for motorcycle magazines for more than 25 years, I’ve heard motorcyclists spout some bizarre beliefs. Here are some of the most enduring motorcycle myths. Each is bogus.

1. Loud pipes save lives. Loud pipes mean more power.

The first of my motorcycle myths is a twofer. First off, loud pipes don’t save lives, but becoming a better rider can. Some people also assume a louder exhaust (one with little or no baffling) makes more power. While a less restrictive exhaust may add a bit more horsepower at the top of the rev range, they often perform poorly unless corresponding changes are made to the intake side. OEM exhausts are designed to provide horsepower and torque where it matters – in the midrange where you spend most of your time riding.

2. Open-face helmets are just as good as full-face helmets.

Full-face motorcycle helmets provide better protection than open-face helmets because they cover the entire head, including the chin and face. Seeing photos of riders with the bottom half of their face torn off convinced me.

A meta-analysis in Preventive Medicine Reports found that full-face helmets reduce the risk of head injuries by 64% and neck injuries by 36% compared to open-face helmets. A full-face helmet’s faceshield protects the face and provides a clear view, and the fully enclosed design reduces noise by up to 30 decibels. Overall, full-face helmets provide better protection, more comfort, and increased safety.

See all of Rider‘s Helmet reviews here.

3. Using car tires on motorcycles is fine.

Does anyone still buy this myth? Using car tires on motorcycles can be dangerous. The Motorcycle Industry Council warns: “Never mount a passenger car tire on a motorcycle rim; the flat profile of a car tire is incompatible with the dynamics of a vehicle that leans as it corners, and the section of the tire in contact with the rim (the ‘bead’) is incompatible with motorcycle rims.”

Tales from the Dark Side, Eric Trow’s feature in Rider on this topic, includes a quote from motorcycle safety expert and AMA hall-of-famer David Hough: “Motorcycle engineers get up awfully early in the morning to calculate what works best for bikes. An owner who disregards the engineers’ advice should think carefully about his or her talents in being more clever than the engineers. The owner who installs tires not designed for the task must take full responsibility for the results.”

Related: Tales From the Dark Side: Putting Car Tires on Motorcycles

4. The rear brake stops a bike better than the front brake.

Using the front brake to stop a motorcycle is more effective and safer than relying on the rear brake. No exercise was practiced more and drilled into us harder during police motor officer training than proper braking. According to the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, the front brake provides over 70% of a motorcycle’s stopping power. It is more effective because as you brake, a motorcycle’s weight shifts forward, giving the front tire more grip. The front brake also provides better control and stability, especially in emergency situations, whereas the rear tire can lock up and skid, leading to loss of control. Using both brakes together provides the shortest stopping distance.

5. “I had to lay it down.”

This refers to intentionally laying a motorcycle on its side to avoid an impending crash. In other words, crashing to avoid a crash. This is not only pointless, it’s dangerous. Every millisecond of braking before impact reduces speed and the severity of damage. Experienced riders and safety organizations such as the MSF emphasize that riders should maintain control of the motorcycle and try to avoid an accident altogether through proper use of the brakes. Laying the bike down is a sign of panic and lack of proper training and experience. It can result in road rash, broken bones, and even death.

6. Lane splitting is dangerous.

Research has shown lane splitting reduces traffic congestion and improves traffic flow. A study by the University of California Berkeley found that lane splitting reduces traffic delays by up to 40%. Lane splitting can be safer for motorcyclists because it reduces the likelihood of being hit from behind by distracted or inattentive drivers. The study also found no increased risk of crashes for motorcyclists who practice it safely and responsibly. Once only allowed in California, it is now legal in various forms in four states. For more on this topic, check out Eric Trow’s feature, Split Decision: Are Lane Splitting and Lane Filtering Safe?.

7. BMWs are more reliable than other motorcycles.

I own a BMW motorcycle, and I’ve owned, ridden, tested, or rented bikes from nearly every major manufacturer. As you can expect, I have opinions about brand reliability, but don’t take my word for it. A 2015 Consumer Reports survey of 11,000 motorcycle owners provided the following ranking of brands in terms of reliability: 1. Yamaha, 2. Honda, 3. Suzuki, 4. Kawasaki, 5. Harley-Davidson, 6. Triumph, 7. Ducati, and 8. BMW.

See all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here.

8. Leather motorcycle apparel offers the best protection.

In truth, the best protective gear is the gear you use and wear all the time. In some instances, Kevlar (a synthetic material five times stronger than steel and with excellent abrasion resistance) and Cordura (a durable nylon that’s also resistant to abrasion) are considered superior to leather. They also weigh less than leather and can keep you cooler, a significant benefit in hot weather.

See all of Rider‘s Apparel reviews here.

9. Being a passenger on a motorcycle is just like being a rider.

Early in my riding days, I gave little thought to what my passenger was experiencing. Eventually, I wised up, and an article I wrote about riding with passengers became one of my most requested reprints. A passenger’s perspective on a motorcycle is very different from the rider’s. If you have any doubts, hop on the passenger seat and ride for 50 miles with someone else at the controls. Passengers can impact the bike’s handling. Riding with a good passenger is wonderful; riding with those who are scared or unfamiliar with how a motorcycle handles can be a total disaster.  

10. Real riders never wash their bikes.

A good friend and fellow motorcycle journalist never washed his bike. He bragged that every bug he ever hit was still there. It was a case of pride over performance. My post-trip habit is to thoroughly wash and detail my motorcycle. In the process, I examine every cable and fastener to ensure it is snug and in its proper place. Going over the bike inch by inch, I often find little things wrong that, if unaddressed, could have caused big problems later. Riders should take the time to clean their own bike and know what to look for. This is the motorcyclist’s equivalent of a pilot flight pre-check. It can save your life.

11. Aftermarket performance accessories improve performance.

My friend Kevin Brown says one of the first things he learned at the Motorcycle Mechanics Institute was to ask the following questions of a rider who complained his bike was not running right: “What did you do to it? Did you add any accessories or make any performance enhancements?” Turns out a high percentage of bikes could be fixed by simply removing the addition. The chances you’ll improve the performance of your bike by adding something is highly unlikely. Usually it runs worse.

See all of Rider‘s Parts & Accessories reviews here.

12. Turn your handlebar in the direction you want to go.

Motorcyclists control the direction of travel by using “countersteering.” This means the rider turns or pushes the handlebar in the opposite direction of the turn. In other words, steer left to turn right, and vice versa. This works because as you turn in the opposite direction, the bike and rider will lean in the direction you wish to go. Many riders are unaware of this but make the correct movement unconsciously.  

Related: Stayin’ Safe: Countersteering

13. Car drivers see motorcycles and will stop for you.

Automobile drivers don’t look for motorcycles the way they watch for other cars. They often will look directly at you yet fail to register the presence of a motorcycle. I credit a good part of my surviving so many motorcycle miles without incident to pretending my bike and I are wrapped in an invisibility cloak and no one can see me. Because of this mindset, I expect cars to pull out in front of me and am always prepared with a “Plan B.”  

14. Only wusses wear protective gear.

Those who have had accidents often credit their protective gear with saving their lives. My riding friends operate with the motto ATGATT, meaning “All The Gear, All The Time.” Full protective gear includes a good helmet and armored jacket, gloves, pants, and boots. Some riders now use airbag vests or suits. Many seriously injured bikers lament from a hospital bed: “But I was only going three blocks to the store. I didn’t want to get all suited up just for that.” 

15. Raingear keeps you dry in the rain.

I’m told some raingear works well. My experience, however, is that rain almost always seeps into small cracks or seams, and before I know it, I’m soaked. I’ve owned at least five pairs of “waterproof” gloves and only one pair worked. Same for boots. If you are riding in the rain, prepare to get wet.  

16. Interstate highways are dangerous.

Interstate highways, while certainly not the most fun, are generally considered the safest place to ride a motorcycle due to their consistent speeds and limited access, which minimizes cross traffic. According to the NHTSA, interstates have the lowest fatality rates per mile traveled compared to other road types. Two-lane roads pose a higher risk due to their narrow lanes and lack of barriers between opposing lanes of traffic. City streets and parking lots pose the highest risk of accidents for motorcyclists due to higher levels of congestion, frequent intersections, and obstacles.

17. Riding side by side within a lane like Ponch and Jon on CHiPs is the best way to ride.

Motorcyclists are safest when riding in a staggered formation. It provides greater visibility and more space for emergency maneuvers and stopping. It also makes it easier to signal your fellow riders should the need arise.  

Related: Stayin’ Safe: Group Riding Tips

18. Faced with a potential accident, you can avoid injury by jumping off your motorcycle.

Like “laying it down,” this may be tempting if it appears you are about to crash, but it’s a bad idea and will likely result in serious injury or death. Sticking with the motorcycle, attempting to control it, and having faith in its ability to stop, rapidly change direction, and get you out of a tight situation is nearly always the better choice. Motorcycles are far more capable than we give them credit for. 

19. Once you set the correct tire pressure on your bike, you can forget it.

Tire pressure has a significant influence on the performance and safety of a motorcycle. Keeping both tires at the correct pressure provides the best ride quality, traction, stability, and control. Incorrect tire pressure negatively impacts wear on the tires and hurts your mileage. All motorcycle tires lose air to some extent, so it is imperative to always check for correct pressure before every ride. 

In his book The Power of Myth, Joseph Cambell wrote that mythologies have value because they “support our quest for wisdom and happiness.” Loud pipes may make you feel cool, and backroads may be the most fun, but don’t believe loud pipes will save your life or that backroads are safer. Motorcycle myths are still myths – widely held but false beliefs.

See all of Rider‘s Tips & Tricks articles here.

The post 19 Common Motorcycle Myths appeared first on Rider Magazine.

America should designate a national park dedicated to motorcycles, and I nominate the Barber Vintage Motorsports Park. Set on 880 acres in the lush, rolling hills east of Birmingham, Alabama, it’s a motorcycle dreamland. A 16‑­turn, 2.4‑­mile racetrack designed with input from John Surtees and Dan Gurney winds through the campus. There are no grandstands, just well‑­manicured grassy hillsides where spectators can spread out chairs, blankets, and umbrellas.

The crown jewel, of course, is the Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum, which holds the Guinness World Record for the world’s largest collection of motorcycles: more than 1,800 of them representing 200 manufacturers from 22 countries.

More than 1,000 motorcycles are on display at any given time, and they are spread out over five floors in a spacious, well‑­lit cathedral of speed and engineering. The top floor of the museum houses the Barber Advanced Design Center, an industrial design lab.

Barber has hosted rounds of AMA/MotoAmerica Superbike racing since 2003. I attended the Superbike races in 2004, where I watched the dominant Mat Mladin battle it out against Jake Zemke and Miguel Duhamel. It also hosts American Historic Racing Motorcycle Association (AHRMA) racing.

Barber hosts two annual motorcycling events: Barber Small Bore, which celebrates the wild and wacky world of minibikes, and Barber Vintage Festival, which brings together vintage bike fans for a three‑­day festival packed with AHRMA races, demo rides, bike shows, seminars, museum tours, vendor areas, and a huge swap meet.

This past October, the 18th annual Barber Vintage Festival hosted the inaugural BMW Motorrad Days Americas – a spin‑­off of the event that takes place every summer in Germany – to celebrate the 100th anniversary of BMW Motorrad.

See all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here.

BMW invited members of the motorcycle media and friends of the brand to be part of the event, which gave me the opportunity for a long-overdue visit to the festival and museum. I’ve been told that you can’t do justice to the museum in less than a full day, and truer words have never been spoken. The scale, depth, and breadth of the collection is mind‑­boggling.

On Friday, our chummy group of motojournalists saddled up on a fleet of BMW R 18 Roctanes to ride from our hotel to Barber. We were joined by Peter Nettesheim and his daughter, Kate. Nettesheim’s New York home showcases the world’s largest collection of BMW motorcycles. He owns at least one of every BMW model built between 1923 and 1970, including the oldest known example of the first motorcycle BMW built, the 1923 R 32, as well as various newer models and an extensive collection of BMW paraphernalia.

Upon arriving at Barber, I hopped on one of the shuttles that carries visitors along the park’s ring road surrounding the racetrack and ferries them to the museum, the Fan Zone, the swap meet, the Proving Grounds, the paddock, and the spectating areas. Motorcycles were parked on nearly every available patch of grass, and the age range and diversity of bikes were impressive. The blue smoke and ring‑­a‑­ding sounds of 2‑­strokes filled the air, and old‑­school minibikes piloted by hipsters and overgrown boys zipped around everywhere. Harleys, Hondas, and Hodakas of various vintages and conditions sat proudly on makeshift kickstand pads, some with “For Sale” signs tucked into the handlebars. Name any motorcycle brand, and it was represented somewhere by someone.

My first stop was the sprawling Proving Grounds, which was the staging area for demo rides offered by BMW, CFMOTO, Indian, KTM, Royal Enfield, Triumph, Yamaha, and electric bike maker Ryvid. BMW had an enormous fleet of bikes on hand and was offering both on‑­road and off‑­road demos. Next to BMW’s demo area, our very own Quinn Redeker gave hourly police‑­style riding demonstrations on a BMW R 1250 RT‑­P, and his humor and skills weaving through tight cone patterns kept folks thoroughly entertained.

Related: Motor School with Quinn Redeker: Hi, My Name is Quinn

Near the Proving Grounds was the Isle of Triumph, an immersive fan experience located inside the racetrack with live music, a bike show, art installations, and vendors selling food, drinks, and merch.

Next, I made my way over to the Henderson Auctions Fan Zone, which overlooks the racetrack and had a bouncy‑­house kids zone, American Motor Drome Company’s Wall of Death, the Urias Family Globe of Death, and a vendor area, where I visited our friends at Royal Enfield, SW‑­Motech, and Wunderlich America.

Taking up most of the real estate in the Fan Zone was the BMW Motorrad Days Americas area, which included displays of current and historical models, a beer garden, a stage with live music, a merchandise store, and partner displays, including Edelweiss Bike Travel, RawHyde Adventures, and the BMW Performance Center.

On the stage at noon, GS Brand Ambassador Shawn “Rock On” Thomas and BMW Motorrad VP Region Americas Trudy Hardy gave a few introductory remarks before pulling a cover off the 2024 BMW R 1300 GS – the bike’s first public showing since being announced on Sept. 28 (see page 7 for details). After Stefan Reiff, BMW Motorrad’s VP of Customer, Brand and Sales, gave an overview of the new GS, Thomas rolled it off the stage, and I captured a short video of him starting up the bike, which is available on the Rider YouTube channel. The R 1300 GS was on display the rest of the weekend, giving folks a chance to check out the bike up close.

Related: BMW Motorrad Unveils 2024 BMW R 1300 GS at Barber Vintage Festival | Videos

At dinner on Friday night, I had the privilege of sitting with Udo Giestl, who worked as an engineer for Butler & Smith, the former U.S. importer for BMW motorcycles. He built the R 90 S racebikes that Reg Pridmore, Gary Fisher, and Steve McLaughlin campaigned in the inaugural 1976 season of AMA Superbike racing. McLaughlin and Pridmore finished 1‑­2 in the Daytona 200 that year, and Pridmore won the championship.

On Saturday, Giestl’s son, Eric, led the BMW parade laps on a restored version of Pridmore’s R 90 S racebike, and he was flanked by Peter and Kate Nettesheim on two vintage BMWs from Peter’s collection.

That same day, Revival Cycles hosted a BMW‑­only ride‑­in bike show, which included well‑­maintained bikes of new and old vintages as well as various customs, like an R 75/5 chopper with a raked‑­out springer front end. I joined several other journalists for an in‑­depth tour of the BMWs in the Barber Museum given by BMW archivist Fred Jakobs, who had traveled from Germany to attend the event.

It was a full, fun weekend with more to do than there was time to do it. No word yet whether BMW Motorrad Days Americas will become an annual event, but no matter what, put the Barber Vintage Festival on your calendar (Oct. 11‑­13, 2024), and make sure you allow plenty of time to explore the museum.

For more information, visit the Barber Vintage Motorsports Museum website.

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