**** I set off from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, in July 2011...and ended up in Aspen, Colorado, in February 2012. Along the way, I visited 28 states, three countries, dozens of national parks, hundreds of cities and towns, and countless friends and strangers. Why? Why not? In fact, I lost my job of seven years when Berkshire Living, the regional magazine I helped launch, folded. Then my apartment building burned down while I was in Miami for the weekend. A breakup and a stolen bicycle figured in shortly thereafter. Wouldn't you hit the road, too? Enjoy my virtual scrapbook of anecdotes and eye candy from a freewheeling, cross-country, cross-cultural odyssey--past, present, and future.Amanda Rae Busch
amandaraewashere@gmail.com
Crossing Paths of Glory
When I arrived at my uncle’s place in Denver on Tuesday, Matt was in the driveway, unloading his BMW bike. He’s my aunt’s brother’s best friend since their childhood in Syracuse—also where us three Busches went to college—and en route from Rhode Island to California, where her brother lives now. As I planned my work-related Denver jaunt at the very last minute, and since Matt’s journey spans only a few 500- to 600-mile days with single nights in various cities, it’s serendipitous that our paths just happened to cross.
If anything, it was a chance to pick his brain about the challenges inherent to two-wheeled travel. After all, I’ve considered some sort of cross-country motorcycle adventure. And then there is my love affair with Sturgis. And I will never tire of hearing stories from fellow road warriors.
We talked road-trips and bike gear all evening over a home-cooked meal—the most anticipated aspect of visiting family, especially after a long stretch on the open road.
(These electrical wires heat his heavy-duty body armor—an invaluable feature in cooler alpine climes.)
“Heated gloves,” Matt said. “They make all the difference. That’s how I got my wife to ride the bike in the fall.”
In the morning we bid Matt adieu, and he set off into the sun, a true asphalt Viking.
Later, I set off for Boulder. Which is when I spied this guy, clearly prepared for the elements:
As my dad quipped, “No helmet…sneakers…and golf clubs just waiting to snag something.”
To borrow the motto of New Hampshire: Live free or die!
[Denver, Colorado, May 8-9, 2012]
![Beware!
[Sturgis, South Dakota, August 11, 2011]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m1rszkOlQs1qloi1ho1_1280.jpg)
![This is Aspen, Colorado, March 8, 2012.
Yesterday afternoon, bathed in 45-degree blazing sunshine, Jayme and I wandered downtown, sidestepping sidewalk slush, and marveled: It’s spring. It’s spring!
That’s a happy scene. And yet it could squall next week, and I’d be equally thrilled.
Last night, in recounting stories from the South Dakota stretch, I arrived at Sturgis. I love talking about Sturgis, not only because bikers get down, but because it was a great visual thrill.
The landscapes of the area swooned me: confetti graffiti in Rapid City; slick asphalt winding through boulders, buffalo herds, and thick forest in Custer State Park; the dim surprise of Mount Rushmore and then Crazy Horse Memorial, more impressive once you watched the movie that explains why it’s possible that it won’t be completed in my lifetime. It thunderstormed so hard one night that my tent blew away like a tumbleweed until it filled with water, and I camped out in my car. (I’m saving the story of the wise circus performer in denim suit and top hat, whom I met in the early morning after he he’d sucked down a morning cigarette but before he put his dentures back in, for another time.) As expected, Deadwood was surreal.
I shot these photos (below) while whizzing through Spearfish Canyon. They sum up the perfect timing of the entire week, and the reverse order creates a back-in-time warp/virtual flip book, see it?
Yes/No/Maybe (circle one)
[Spearfish Canyon, Spearfish, South Dakota, August 12, 2011]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0mu1ga3tU1qloi1ho1_1280.jpg)
This is Aspen, Colorado, March 8, 2012.
Yesterday afternoon, bathed in 45-degree blazing sunshine, Jayme and I wandered downtown, sidestepping sidewalk slush, and marveled: It’s spring. It’s spring!
That’s a happy scene. And yet it could squall next week, and I’d be equally thrilled.
Last night, in recounting stories from the South Dakota stretch, I arrived at Sturgis. I love talking about Sturgis, not only because bikers get down, but because it was a great visual thrill.
The landscapes of the area swooned me: confetti graffiti in Rapid City; slick asphalt winding through boulders, buffalo herds, and thick forest in Custer State Park; the dim surprise of Mount Rushmore and then Crazy Horse Memorial, more impressive once you watched the movie that explains why it’s possible that it won’t be completed in my lifetime. It thunderstormed so hard one night that my tent blew away like a tumbleweed until it filled with water, and I camped out in my car. (I’m saving the story of the wise circus performer in denim suit and top hat, whom I met in the early morning after he he’d sucked down a morning cigarette but before he put his dentures back in, for another time.) As expected, Deadwood was surreal.
I shot these photos (below) while whizzing through Spearfish Canyon. They sum up the perfect timing of the entire week, and the reverse order creates a back-in-time warp/virtual flip book, see it?
Yes/No/Maybe (circle one)
[Spearfish Canyon, Spearfish, South Dakota, August 12, 2011]
Chrome, leather, crazy times, and a crowd of 500,000.
Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, South Dakota, 2011
Not to worry, we were busy watching the girl-fight at the Knuckle Saloon.
How many motorcyclists can fit beneath a gas station canopy?
I wondered why there were incredible swarms of bikers in the tiny town of Wall, South Dakota, on Sunday…which only increased in size and number on my journey through the Black Hills.
Of course: it’s the annual Sturgis Rally! The streets of Keystone, South Dakota, are flooded with a sea of leather and chrome and the camaraderie of riders from across the country rings loud amid a chorus of rumbling engines.
I considered driving across the country on a motorcycle.
That brilliant idea lasted all of five minutes, during the ride my dad and I took this weekend on our respective bikes, my first this season. (Even though I’m a thirteen-year veteran of the sport (Really—do the math), I’m mildly superstitious and have been filled with trepidation in the wake of my recent bad-luck streak. Turns out, it was the same as always: wild, and like…riding a bike.)
It’s addictive, being out there, with the road whirring along inches beneath your feet, wholly vulnerable and completely fearless at the same time, without much protection to speak of and virtually zero distraction. It’s just you, traveling through nature, enjoying the things you can’t when trapped inside a box: feeling the temperature drop a few degrees as you climb up the mountain in Windsor, Mass.; inhaling the sweet smell of damp fern at the edge of the Mohawk State Forest; zooming through a flurry of dandelion fuzz while crossing the Little Hoosic River. You might see a sherbet-yellow butterfly flitting across the road, its tiny button body making the voyage haphazard and carefree. You might make eye contact with a dragonfly, a split-second before it splatters into your face shield. You don’t dare try to wipe the remains away; that will just make more of a mess. All of these details are nonexistant when traveling by car.
My parents (who celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary tonight, a feat in and of itself!) made the journey together on two wheels from Vermont to California and back again in 1979, and I’ve always thought about how supremely Bad Ass it would be to follow in their, uh, tracks.
But then I remember: it’s 2011, it’s just me, and I’m too much of a modern girl to enjoy an endeavor that requires such incredible sacrifice. I’m seeking enlightenment, not leg cramps. I want to carry more than a few extra changes of clothing; my camping gear alone takes up the space of a small human! I’m lugging a laptop, cell phone, camera, and chargers, cables, and cases for all of ‘em. Not to mention the sheer physical exertion of submitting oneself to sun and heat and wind for hours on end, day after day, all while dealing with weather patterns that could shift at a moment’s notice and drivers who may or may not be three-quarters distracted…No, thanks.
A righteous accomplishment it would be, for sure, but it’s not for me. Besides, I have only a few footwear options left; why on earth would I choose to limit myself to wearing a single pair of boots for the next 3+ months?
