A good ride doesn’t have to be a long one. With only $10’s worth of gas, I set out to see how much fun I could have cruising around close to home on a New Jersey and New York motorcycle ride, and I was not disappointed.

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It was a beautiful spring day with low humidity and temperatures in the 70s. I went out to the garage to warm up my 1990 BMW K 75, a bike known as the “Flying Brick.” Adding a little throttle as it idled, the BMW sang its familiar run run run run. I’ve owned it for 32 years, and with 28,000 miles on the clock, it’s barely broken in.

With its 750cc inline-Triple, waterproof saddlebags, and a cafe windscreen, some motorcycle reviews called the K 75 the perfect bike. It can take you around the corner for a quart of milk or around the world. I gassed her up, getting only a couple gallons for my $10. The gas station attendant admired the BMW’s silver paint and blue pinstripes and asked if it was new. I told him it was almost twice as old as he was.

Related: Retrospective: BMW K75S 750: 1987-1995

See all of Rider‘s BMW coverage here.

The days of the 1,000-mile weekend trip are over for me. Most of my motorcycle jaunts these days, whether alone or with friends, are designed around breakfast, lunch, and a late afternoon snack.

From my home in Ramsey, New Jersey, it was a quick ride north on State Route 17 to Auntie El’s Farm Market in Sloatsburg, New York. At one time just a small shack with plants in summer and Christmas trees in winter, it’s now half a block long and sells plants, garden art, and fresh fruit and vegetables. But for me, it’s all about Auntie El’s bakery, which serves up freshly baked pastries, pies, and cookies. I enjoyed a warm apple turnover with coffee.

Next, I veered west on Sterling Mine Road, curved my way back into New Jersey, and rode past Ringwood Manor, a 724-acre park with rolling hills and a babbling brook. A slow ride through the park is usually a nice diversion, but on this trip I kept going and turned onto Margaret King Avenue. A few miles later, I turned west onto Greenwood Lake Turnpike and crossed over the Monksville Reservoir, which provides water for northern New Jersey and recreation for kayakers, paddleboarders, and anglers.

It was not quite 9 a.m., and the lake shimmered in the morning light. Anglers were out trying their luck. I slipped into the parking lot with my K 75 making about as much noise as a sewing machine – even the geese on the shoreline were unperturbed. Walking out on the dock provided a taste of the natural beauty that’s so close to home.

Continuing on Greenwood Lake Turnpike took me to its namesake body of water, which is a narrow 7-mile lake that straddles the border of New York and New Jersey. From the turnpike I could see boats bobbing in the water at South Shore Marina, where years ago I kept “Dumb Idea,” my 19-foot day sailer. Anyone who has owned a boat will understand the name. The road, which becomes Warwick Turnpike, was all mine as I curved a large arc around Upper Greenwood Lake.

My next stop was Wawayanda State Park, a wonderful 34,350-acre preserve with 60 miles of trails and a beautiful spring-fed lake with a wide swimming beach, a boat launch, and kayak rentals. It’s a great place to take a short break and enjoy the sun sparkling on the lake. I was only burning $10’s worth of gas, so there was no need to rush.

I crossed back into New York, turned west onto Route 94, then north onto Sanfordville Road. Turning west on Pine Island Turnpike took me to Pine Island, an area famous for its onion farms and some of the blackest dirt you’ve ever seen. After a quick stop in town, where there’s a great restaurant called The Jolly Onion, I backtracked on the turnpike and turned north on Little York Road, a small country road with views of the fields and small tidy houses in dappled sunlight. I stopped at the Warwick Valley Winery & Distillery, which has a cafe, picnic tables, and acres of land. As I strolled the grounds, I admired the blooming roses and made a note to return for a longer visit.

See all of Rider‘s Northeast U.S. touring stories here.

Continuing east on Pine Island Turnpike, I turned east at West Street and rode into the heart of Warwick, a charming town full of cafes and restaurants. There’s free parking in a large public lot right off Main Street. I sought out a power outlet to recharge my phone and had a slice of pizza while I waited.

Farther down Main Street at the far end of town is a large public park with benches under towering oak trees, providing shade that complemented the spring breeze. On a little hill is the Old School Baptist Meeting House, a majestic white church built in 1810. It’s now maintained by the Warwick Historical Society, and I enjoyed a quick tour.

I left Warwick by riding south on Oakland Avenue (Route 94) and then turning east on Galloway Road (State Route 17A). A left turn on Kain Road took me to Bellvale Farms Creamery, which looks like a Norman Rockwell painting of a farmhouse and has an expansive view of a valley full of farms. It also serves delicious ice cream, but I didn’t want to spoil my appetite.  

One of my favorite stops for breakfast or lunch is The Village Buzz Cafe, which is in the heart of the Village of Greenwood Lake on Windermere Avenue just off Route 17A. The cafe serves up hometown cooking with welcoming smiles all around, and its menu includes all-day breakfast, sandwiches, and sweets. Their handcut home-fried potatoes with onions alone are worth a stop. Out front there’s a chalkboard with positive affirmations written in different colors, and they reminded me of how lucky I was to be up on two wheels on a gorgeous day.

By the time I returned home, I’d only ridden 89 miles, but the $10 I spent was a bargain for a great day of exploring hills, lakes, and curves.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

When I hear the first whispers of the siren’s call to hit the road, my desire to rumble off on a multiday trip slowly rises to a crescendo until I have no other choice but to pack my Kawasaki Vulcan 900 Classic LT and ride toward the horizon. On a motorcycle tour such as the one I recently took into the Pennsylvania Wilds on U.S. Route 6, the journey is as important as the destination, so I take time to explore along the way.

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Regardless of the destination, the trip itself must satisfy my need for the pastoral – wild land, scenic roads, and the peaceful simplicity of small towns. Cruising U.S. Route 6 deep into the hinterlands of Pennsylvania fulfills all those criteria, making for a deeply enjoyable excursion. 

Riding west on Pennsylvania’s famous Route 6, which takes you through the Endless Mountains region to the north-central part of the state, known as the Pennsylvania Wilds. This region is devoid of urban/suburban sprawl and comprises over 2 million acres of public land, 29 state parks, eight state forests, the Allegheny National Forest, ample farmland, and hundreds of miles of rural roadways to ride.

For road trip itineraries and other info the about the PA Route 6 corridor, visit PARoute6.com

Route 6 provides a diverse and scenic ride through Pennsylvania, but it also traverses the entire country from Provincetown, Massachusetts, to Bishop, California. Construction began in 1926, and it is now the second longest road in the country at 3,227 miles. Route 6 through Pennsylvania is like a wilderness path leading modern-day explorers on steel steeds deep into the Keystone State’s hinterlands, home to bear, deer, coyote, rattlesnake, fox, bald eagle, and elk.

I began my journey by crossing into Pennsylvania from New Jersey on the Milford Bridge over the majestic Delaware River. From Milford, Route 6 begins a rolling, curving climb from the river to the highlands. Throttling on the power, I flew through forests and past ponds until reaching the big enchilada – or locally, the “Big Lake” – Lake Wallenpaupack. Thirteen miles in length, with 52 miles of shoreline and 5,700 acres of surface area, it is the second largest lake within Pennsylvania’s borders. There are six public recreations areas and a wide array of accommodations, outdoor activities, dining, and shopping.

Wanting to savor this moment – and location – I turned south at PA Route 507 into a parking area and stretched my legs by walking along the shoreline of Lake Wallenpaupack and atop the dam. Route 6 passes the base of the dam as it continues to Hawley, one of the typical turn-of-the-century small towns along this route. 

Mostly a two-lane rural highway, Route 6 does have a few congested areas along the way, such as in Honesdale, but Honesdale to Waymart is smooth sailing – or riding. The mountains around Waymart are capped with humongous wind turbines, which are an impressive sight, but I prefer my mountains au naturale.

Past Mayfield, I left Route 6 and took PA Route 107 to avoid the major congestion around Clark Summit, reconnecting with Route 6 at Factoryville. From there I cruised through the countryside to Wyalusing, where my Vulcan climbed into the mountains with confidence. 

At the summit, both Wyalusing Rocks and Marie Antoinette overlooks are must-stops. Wyalusing Rocks, located 500 feet above the Susquehanna River, was once used as a signaling point for the Iroquois Indians. The Marie Antoinette Overlook is named after the former Queen of France of “Let them eat cake” fame; supposedly she once planned to immigrate to this area.

The river, farmland, and hills unfolded before my eyes, embracing the blue horizon and making me think of Jimi Hendrix’s lyric “Excuse me while I kiss the sky.”

Check out Rider‘s other Northeast U.S. touring stories here.

From Wyalusing Rocks, I weaved west with the sweet sound of the Vulcan pulsating in my ears and the cool, crisp air enveloping me. Mount Pisgah State Park is just 2 miles north of Route 6 at West Burlington. This 1,302-acre park has a lake, picnic area, swimming pool, and a scenic overlook of the Endless Mountains region. The park provides a nice stop for rest and a walkabout.

Continuing west on my asphalt “river of dreams” through small villages and the countryside, I eventually cruised into Wellsboro and the rider-friendly Sherwood Motel – my base for exploring more of the Wilds.

Wellsboro is a gateway to this rural region and a popular destination for riders exploring the area. It epitomizes small-town 19th-century America so much so that its streetlamps are still lit by gas. Settled in 1806, it was named in honor of Mary Wells, one of the original settlers. Restaurants, stores, and parks are within walking distance of motels. The first night, I had a tasty dinner at the Steak House Restaurant. Initially, I was a bit anxious about dining solo, but the staff was friendly and welcoming, which is typical of most hinterland Pennsylvanians.

The morning greeted me with a cool but sunny day – perfect riding weather. Firing up my Vulcan, I rolled south on PA Route 287 to PA Route 414 west. Route 414 is one of the prettiest rides in the entire state. This section through part of the Pine Creek Gorge area is rustic, with a few small communities and scattered homes.

Over thousands of years, Pine Creek carved the 47-mile gorge also known as the PA Grand Canyon. The 62-mile Pine Creek Rail Trail is used for hiking, river travel, bicycling, horseback riding, and cross-country skiing. Outside of the wilderness protected area, riders can cruise Route 414 as it slides along for miles next to Pine Creek.

Parking areas with comfort stations offer river and rail trail access. At the Blackwell Access area, I met a young couple from Maryland who were going to backpack into the surrounding wilderness. We talked a bit, and then I wished them luck and warned them to watch out for the timber rattlesnakes that live in the area. Each June there is an annual rattlesnake roundup festival throughout the region.

Continuing my ride, I passed the quaint village of Cedar Run and weaved back and forth on bridges crossing Pine Creek. The roadway crawled up a mountainside presenting a great view. At the intersection with PA Route 44, I roared into the mountains of Tiadaghton State Forest. About 5 miles north of Haneyville, I turned west on Hyner Mountain Road heading toward Hyner Run and Hyner View state parks. With the sun on my face and the sweet mountain air filling my lungs, I was in rider heaven.

Related: Kawasaki Announces More 2023 Returning Models

The narrow, winding road to the summit of Hyner View can be challenging, but the views are spectacular. Forested mountains roll toward the sky like a vast green sea, and below, PA Route 120 winds through the valley alongside the West Branch of the Susquehanna River.

I connected with Route 120 and continued west toward Renovo, once a thriving railroad company town of more than 4,000 people that has dwindled to a population of 1,228. Entering Renovo on Route 120, I stopped at a moving memorial for the soldiers who gave their lives protecting our country. A green battle tank that matches the lush grass and surrounding forest guards the memorial.

Route 120 heads west alongside the Susquehanna River and the railroad tracks enveloped by thousands of acres of state forests. This route west to Sinnemahoning is beautiful and one of most desolate areas I traveled through. I rode for miles without seeing another soul. It was the first time on the trip that I felt completely alone.

People ask if I get lonely or nervous on solo trips, but I actually don’t. Whenever I pulled over for a photo or route check, people often stopped and asked me if I needed help. Sometimes they offered advice on the road conditions or suggested a scenic stop. It reminded me of Blanche Dubois’s line in A Streetcar Named Desire: “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.”

At PA Route 872, I blasted north through Elk State Forest and stopped at George B. Stevenson Dam and Sinnemahong State Park’s wildlife viewing area. Unfortunately, I did not spot any elk. From there, I cruised north out of the mountainous area into lush hills and returned to Route 6 again at Lymansville.

Turning west, I followed Route 6 to Smethport, PA Route 59 west to Ormsby, and then south to Kinzua Bridge State Park, home to the Kinzua Sky Walk. The park’s namesake bridge was once known as the Viaduct, a railroad structure that spanned 2,053 feet across – and 301 feet above – the Kinzua Gorge. Partially destroyed by a tornado in 2003, what remained of the bridge was converted into a pedestrian walkway.

Visitors can now walk 600 feet out on the remaining support towers to enjoy sweeping views of the gorge and surrounding mountains, as well as a glass platform at the end of the walkway for breathtaking views down below. The Kinzua Sky Walk is an especially impressive place to enjoy fall colors.

Cruising along Route 6, I made my way back to Wellsboro. There are three recommended stops along the way: Larry’s Sport Center in Galeton, which sells Harley-Davidson, Kawasaki, Yamaha, and Suzuki motorcycles, and the Colton and Leonard Harrison state parks, both of which have impressive views of Pine Creek Canyon.

Back at the Sherwood Motel, I enjoyed a relaxing soak in the warm water of the pool. Afterwards, I had dinner in the lounge of the historic Penn-Wells Hotel, originally built in 1869. Conversing with the bartender and locals, I felt as comfortable as a regular.

The next day, I began my journey home heading south on Route 287 to Morris, but this time I went east on Route 414. And what a great ride it was – weaving and rolling through the countryside, passing farms and surrounded by the green hills on the horizon.

Rejoining Route 6 for a spell at Towanda, my Vulcan climbed back up the mountain by the Wyalusing Rocks Overlook, and then I rode PA Routes 409 and 706 through the Endless Mountains region to New Milford.

Somewhere along Route 706, I stopped on a downward sloped shoulder for a photo. As I dismounted, over the bike went. Within minutes, people stopped to help. We righted the bike, I thanked them, and then I continued my ride. I had once again relied on “the kindness of strangers,” and I will pay that kindness forward.

At New Milford, I took a series of pleasantly undulating state routes to Damascus, where I rested and watched Pennsylvanians enjoying the Delaware River. Crossing the bridge into New York, I rolled south on the Upper Delaware Scenic Byway (NY Route 97) toward Port Jervis, which offers expansive views of Pennsylvania and New York.

As I rumbled back home through New Jersey, I could not help but relive this great Route 6 ride through the Pennsylvania Wilds. I knew the region, its roads, and many other delights would soon be calling me back.

Greenery, blue skies, and sunshine were bursting forth upon the land like an invitation from Mother Nature to fire up my machine and go forth on a ride on some of my favorite northeastern backroads. I accepted her call and began my cruise a few miles north of the New Jersey border in Pine Island, New York.

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Negative depictions of the state in film and television cause some people to think New Jersey is covered in urban sprawl, oil refineries, and clogged “highways jammed with broken heroes on a last chance power drive,” as Bruce Springsteen put it.

Although true for some parts of New Jersey close to the metropolises of New York City and Philadelphia, it’s called the Garden State for a reason. Northwestern New Jersey and northeastern Pennsylvania are blessed with farmland, forests, lakes, rivers, state parks, small towns, country churches, and most importantly, great roads to ride. Those blessings make this loop route a memorable favorite ride.

Check out more of Rider‘s Favorite Rides

With the sun warming my face and the sweet fragrance of greenery filling my lungs, I rumbled south on my Kawasaki Vulcan 900 Classic LT. I had sold my heavy Vulcan 1700 Voyager, and although I missed all its bells and whistles, I enjoyed the backroad nimbleness of the much lighter 900.

On Glenwood Road (County Road 26) just north of the New Jersey border, the Blue Arrow Farm has an impressive replica of a western Plains Indian village. In New Jersey, Glenwood Road splits, and I turned west onto the rolling, serpentine County Road 565 and stopped at the unique Farm at Glenwood Mountain. Encompassing 170 acres, it sells grass-fed, free-range beef from Scottish Highland cattle, free-range chicken, eggs, turkey, and pork, as well as local honey and organic fruits and vegetables. They also host private farm-to-table dinners and weddings.

Rolling southwest toward Sussex takes you along the border of Wallkill River National Wildlife Refuge, which runs 9 miles along the Wallkill River (one of the few rivers in the U.S. that flows north) and protects 5,100 acres of land. Wildlife abounds in this area, including waterfowl, raptors, coyotes, deer, and bears. Throughout my years cruising through rural New Jersey, I have been lucky enough to spot several bears, as well as red foxes, a coyote, and numerous great blue herons.

After crossing over State Route 23, I passed The Village Smith and Cycle Works, a motorcycle repair and blacksmith shop where you can get new tires for your motorcycle and new shoes for your horse. Naturalist writer and gadfly Henry David Thoreau said to “simplify, simplify” your life. In rural New Jersey, we say “diversify, diversify” your life to succeed.

Continuing on 565 to rustic Plains Road, I connected with U.S. Route 206. Cruising north toward Kittatinny Mountain, I saw some interestingly named eateries, such as Jumboland Diner and Firehouse Bagels, which has a real firetruck as part of its decor.

Passing through part of Stokes State Forest, which encompasses more than 16,000 acres, I turned onto County Route 560, sailing toward the Dingmans Ferry Bridge, one of the few remaining privately owned bridges in the United States.

Opened in 1900, the bridge is 530 feet long and crosses the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Riding high above the river on a motorcycle over its wooden planks is quite the experience. This rustic bridge lies within the Delaware Water Gap National Recreation Area, which spans 70,000 acres in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. A boat-launching area next to the crossing has views of the bridge.

Two impressive waterfall areas are nearby: Dingmans Falls and Childs Park. Both are worth a stop. Dingmans Falls is reached by a short, flat stroll on a boardwalk through the forest and alongside the stream. Childs Park is more challenging, with stairs going both up and down and a rugged walkway.

After a brief respite by the river, I fired up my machine and took State Route 739 to Silver Lake Road – a winding, rolling traverse through state forest land, lakes, and hidden gated communities. With areas of huge trees and forests lining the road, you get the feeling of motorcycling through primeval times. Route 402 north is much the same but is a faster-paced ride.

Blooming Grove Road (County Road 4004) and Well Road (CR 434), meander past country stores, rural homes, and forests. I felt like I was riding through a simpler era in America. At U.S. Route 6, a scenic byway that traverses the northern part of Pennsylvania, I roared toward Milford, a touristy town with several good restaurants.

After a late lunch at the Apple Valley Restaurant, I cruised across the modern Milford-Montague Toll Bridge with great views of the river back to Jersey. County Route 650 serpentines back through Stokes State Forest, which is a favorite of riders who love to challenge its rolling curves or just cruise along serenely. Traveling Routes 519 and 23 to Sussex, I headed northeast on State Route 284 to Bassetts Bridge Road, Lake Wallkill Road, and Glenwood Mountain Road.

As my Vulcan weaved through the countryside to Routes 565/517 and back to Pine Island, I reflected on what an enjoyable ride it had been. It was one I was destined to repeat.

“You’re riding your motorcycle to find graveyards – on purpose?” The conversation with a young police officer on a road construction detail in western Massachusetts was brief, but it motivated me to share why old graveyards are fascinating places to explore.

Rewind to the 1970s. My dad was a college professor whose academic interests included early New England graveyards. On weekends and summer vacations, he dragged my sisters and me along to find them. Long before GPS, such trips often became a quest since Dad’s approach to navigating involved dead reckoning. “I wonder where that road goes?” he’d say. “One way to find out.” It’s fair to say that Dad informed my interest in exploring on motorcycles.

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Since Massachusetts has some of America’s oldest communities settled by Europeans, it has some of the country’s oldest graveyards. Three of Dad’s favorites were in the towns of Longmeadow, Deerfield, and Wilbraham, all in the Connecticut River Valley of western Mass. I decide to revisit these graveyards with the benefit of an adult perspective. Since they’re not even 40 miles apart, I extend the ride a couple hundred miles using Dad’s “I wonder where that road goes” approach, and along the way I find other old graveyards to explore.

The ride begins in Longmeadow. Along Williams Street, behind historic First Church, is the Olde Burying Ground, c. 1718, a small section within Longmeadow Cemetery. In old graveyards like this, carvings in stone offer insights into family life, social status, occupations, religious beliefs, sickness, tragedy, and the ways people conceived of death.

The stone of Ebenezer Bliss concludes with this stark epitaph: “Death is a Debt To Nature Due Which I have Pay’d And so must You.” The nature of one’s death is often explained, such as from smallpox, childbirth, or drowning, although Adjt. Jonathan Burt’s stone leaves us wondering, because he “departed this life in a sudden and surprising manner.”

From Longmeadow, I point my BMW F 750 GS north on U.S. Route 5 across the Connecticut River, then west on State Route 57. To avoid built-up sections of Agawam, I cut through Rising Corner and rejoin 57 past the Southwick fire station. The curves beyond Granville Gorge entice me to quicken the pace, though as I enter the village of Granville a flashing speed limit sign convinces me to roll off.

Up the hill beyond the town hall, I come upon Center Cemetery, c. 1753. As with many old graveyards that are no longer “active” (accepting new burials), one cannot drive into this graveyard, so I park just off the road. Also like many old graveyards, it isn’t next to a church. Some early settlers of New England, notably Puritans, located their dead away from the everyday lives of the living.

The headstone of Lt. Samuel Bancraft, Granville’s first settler, includes a slight variation of the epitaph I saw earlier in Longmeadow: “Death is a debt, to nature due. I have paid it, and so must you.”

Continuing west, I enjoy several miles of new tar, but on the steep downhill curves to New Boston I am cursing the inventor of tar snakes. Beyond the village, I notice unpaved Beech Plain Road, and a right turn takes me along stands of trees dressed in vibrant yellow fall foliage. There’s not a tar snake in sight.

In Otis, I merge onto State Route 8 north and then lean west onto State Route 23, an entertaining two-lane that hugs the contours of the Berkshire Hills. Past the village of Monterey, I see a sign for River Road. Dad explained that roads of that name are usually curvy and rarely dead end. Right on both counts!

Following a bridge-out detour, I arrive in Sheffield. On the other side of U.S. Route 7 there’s a sign for Bow Wow Road, and being a dog lover, I need to see where it goes. A ways after it turns to dirt, I find Pine Grove Cemetery, c. 1758. I see family plots for Olds and Curtiss and wonder if these graves include ancestors of the automobile and aviation pioneers of those names.

I continue on North Undermountain Road and Pumpkin Hollow Road. At the village of Alford, Center Cemetery, c. 1780, warrants investigation. Among the finds is this pithy epitaph: “Gone not lost.”

Leaving the town center, West Road gets the nod over East Road, and after a couple turns I’m on State Route 41 riding north through Richmond to Hancock. History buffs can visit Hancock Shaker Village. Shakers were a religious community known for their elegantly functional barns and furniture, and for their devotion to celibacy. (The latter may account for their current lack of numbers.)

Heading west on U.S. Route 20 takes me over the New York border to State Route 22 north and Stephentown. A right on State Route 43 returns me to Massachusetts, having sidestepped Pittsfield’s population center. Another right on Brodie Mountain Road leads to U.S. 7 north. At the five-corners intersection, I turn right onto State Route 43 and follow the Green River to Williamstown, a quintessential New England college town. At the junction of State Route 2, a left leads to lively Spring Street and multiple options for eats and coffee.

Refreshed and re-caffeinated, I head west toward North Adams and know exactly where to go: up the Mount Greylock Scenic Byway. This technical twist-fest leads to the highest point in Massachusetts (3,491 ft). Rockwell Road winds me down the other side of the mountain, and at the Mount Greylock Visitor’s Center, I turn around to ride the route in reverse. This 30-mile round trip is too much fun to pass by.

East of North Adams, the scenic Mohawk Trail (Route 2) rises through the famous Hairpin Turn, on to the town of Florida, then back down through Mohawk Trail State Forest. Exciting curves and elevation changes are enhanced by the clear autumn day. At Charlemont, I go north on State Route 8A, another twisting gem, to Branch Road, which tracks the west branch of North River east to State Route 112. This two-lane path curves quick and easy south to Ashfield where a left on State Route 116 puts me on a favorite twisty two-lane. But first, I stop at Elmer’s, an eatery popular with locals as well as motorcyclists passing through.

While jawing with some old-timers, I learn there’s a “really old” graveyard I should see on Norton Hill Road. As I pull up to Hill Cemetery, I can tell from the styles of gravestones that it’s no older than mid-19th century, but a war memorial right next to the road rewards the stop. Erected in 1867, it includes this wording: “TO THE EVER LIVING MEMORY OF THE SONS OF ASHFIELD WHO DIED FOR THEIR COUNTRY IN THE WAR OF NATIONALITY 1861-1865.” It’s the only place I have seen the U.S. Civil War described using this term.

At Creamery Road, I turn left toward South Ashfield then savor those curves on 116 to South Deerfield. It’s easy to bypass busy U.S. 5 via Lee Road and Mill Village Road to reach the Old Deerfield historic district. There, at the end of Albany Road, is another of Dad’s favorite graveyards, the Old Deerfield Burying Ground, c. 1690s (aka Old Albany Cemetery).

More than a dozen stones date back to the 1600s, the oldest one for Mary Blanchard, who had 10 children with her first husband, John Waite, and nine more with her second husband, John Blanchard. Notably, this graveyard includes a monument to 47 settlers killed during a raid on the town by native residents and their French military allies on February 29, 1704.

Walking the rows of stones, it’s intriguing to note how the styles have evolved over time. Early carvings with skulls gave way to skulls with wings, then winged angels, and then urns with weeping willows. Few parents still give their newborns names like these: Eleazer, Flavia, Zenas, Temperence, Dorcas, Ithamser, Arrethusa, and Thankfull Experience. Also here is a gravestone for a young woman whose name is hard to read without chuckling: Fanny Forward.

Leaving Deerfield, a short stretch north on U.S. 5 connects to another River Road, this one following the Connecticut River south to Mount Sugarloaf. Beyond the bridge, a right onto State Route 47 south follows the river’s other bank where harvested tobacco fields and the Mount Holyoke Range provide scenery.

Keeping to roads less traveled, I make my way through South Hadley, Belchertown, Ludlow, and Wilbraham, to Adams Cemetery, c. 1740. Gravestones here include dozens with epitaphs that speak to the difficulty of life and inevitability of death. Consider two:

• “Friends and Physicians could not save, My mortal body from the grave.”
• “Youth blooming learn your mortal state, How frail your life, how short the date.”

It’s fitting that Dad is buried here in one of the graveyards that so intrigued him – particularly one that is actively preserved and celebrated as a historical resource. Even if the graveyards in your neck of the woods aren’t as old, it’s likely they’re peaceful, beautiful, and interesting places to explore. When you’re enjoying a ride, take the opportunity to experience history in outdoor museums along the way. Explore old graveyards – on purpose.

My obsession with the White Mountains and Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire began nearly a year before I rode the famous route. I’d been testing BMW’s K 1600 B on a late-season ride on Vermont Route 100, just tootling along with all the Subarus, when I saw a guy on the side of the road standing atop an aged custom Harley, waving.

Curiosity got the best of me, so I swung the bagger around to meet Eric, a local mechanic, who said he was standing on his bike to get people to stop and make a donation for a friend and his wife who were in a motorcycle accident.

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This would turn out to be Stanley Lynde and his wife, Laura, owners of Lynde Motorsports in Brattleboro, Vermont. There was an official GoFundMe webpage at the time, but Eric “didn’t do the internet.”

And his method seemed to work, with several people stopping by as we chatted, offering donations and well wishes. Eric, a veteran motorcyclist and builder who can no longer get out for big rides, was very emotional about the situation. When I asked him if there was something I could do beyond a donation, he promptly said yes, I could ride. Specifically, he requested I head up into the White Mountains and ride his favorite road, the Kancamagus Highway, in honor of the Lyndes.

And I tried. With all my heart. But a major storm blew in the next day, the only free day I had before returning the bike and flying home. Eric, his friends, and the road with the odd-sounding name were on my mind all winter long.

A COMMUNITY, NOT A CLUB

Late the next summer I was finally able to return to the Northeast, this time for a high-mileage test of BMW’s R 1200 RT. The Kancamagus, aka The Kanc (technically NH Route 112), topped my list of roads to explore.

I enlisted the help of Ed Conde, route master for New England Riders (NER, newenglandriders.org), an impressively large group (14,000+ strong on Facebook) that identifies as “a community of motorcyclists that self-organize to ride and have fun with other riders,” rather than a club, in which there would be things like dues and rules and officers.

Now, I’m a solo rider by nature, but after getting to know Ed and his wife, Debbie, online, I was excited to meet up with them and a small crew of NER riders to follow Ed’s “Best of the White Mountains” tracks, a 202-mile double loop that launches from Gorham, New Hampshire.

It was a Friday morning in September when I throttled out of Gorham with seven strangers, tracing the Androscoggin River eastward on U.S. Route 2, then crossing into Maine to head south on State Route 113. This rural highway is where the party started, with the road beginning to curve and roll as it swept its way up into the White Mountain National Forest.

Right away, it was clear this group could ride. On the way to the meeting point, I’d been thinking, “Okay, be patient, this could be a long day, be on your guard…” – all the things one should remember when joining an unknown group of riders. When we stopped at Evans Notch overlook for a breather, I learned these NER members are skilled because most had invested in training and trackdays, many under the tutelage of Ken Condon, author of Riding in the Zone.

THE MASTER PLANNER

The White Mountains, a roughly 90-mile segment of the much larger Appalachian Range, was created by western movement of the North American Plate more than 100 million years ago, long before the glaciers of the Ice Age covered them, then receded, smoothing sharp edges into the rounded notches and dished valleys we see today.

Our group was too early for the region’s famous fall colors, which suited these passionate riders just fine since it meant light traffic as we flowed down State Route 113. At Fryeburg, we followed Ed on a few quick turns to reach Hurricane Mountain Road, a narrow goat path of a backroad that constantly rises and dives, splashing through the densely forested hills, twisting just enough to heighten the senses.

I swear I didn’t tell Ed that I’m obsessed with road-trip pancakes; it just happened this group feels the same. Polly’s potential for addiction is real, and I’m happy I live thousands of miles away. Most of us went with pancake “samplers,” where you order three short stacks (yes, per person!), mixing and matching different batters and mix-ins.

It’s at this point I realize Ed Conde is more than just a nice guy with some ideas about good roads. Ed is a purveyor of truly fine roads, the kind of gems you simply wouldn’t find and connect on your own. And as I’ll learn over time, his skills aren’t limited to cataloging premium strands of tarmac; Ed sews in all the best views, bathroom stops, and restaurants, too.

It’s the secret stash a local rider might know, but Ed’s not a local here in New Hampshire. He and Debbie live near Boston, and it’s become their shared passion to travel on bikes – he on a Honda ST1300 and she on a Suzuki V-Strom 650 – exploring new states and creating a database of the best motorcycle roads, many of them stitched into day rides. Ed shares these elaborate ride plans and GPX tracks, which span from Nova Scotia all the way down to Alabama and Georgia, on the NER website.

It’s their way of giving back to the community, he says, for all the joy and treasured memories motorcycling has brought to their lives.

TIES THAT BIND

After conquering Hurricane Mountain Road, we traveled west on U.S. Route 302, taking time for a photo stop at the beautiful Cathedral Ledge viewpoint in Echo Lake State Park, before continuing to Bear Notch Road, another curvy delight with three worthy overlooks.

Then finally, up ahead, the road sign I’d been envisioning for almost a year: State Route 112, the famous Kancamagus.

While no one I was with that day knew the reason behind my request to ride this particular highway, I was sure they would feel equally compelled by Eric standing on his old Harley, feeling helpless about his friend’s fate.

Since that chance meeting, I’d learned Laura had survived her injuries, but sadly, Stanley had not. I carried his family in my heart as I rolled onto the Kanc.

PANCAKES FOR LUNCH

Just as Eric promised, the views from Route 112 were glorious. The highway is well-kept and curvaceous, chasing after the Swift River like a blackbird mobbing a hawk.

When we stopped at the Pemigewasset Overlook, everyone was in great spirits, laughing and telling stories. I didn’t even stop to wonder how it was these strangers I’d met only hours before now felt like old friends. We’ve all felt it, that current of shared experience that so instantly connects riders when and wherever we meet.

Unexpectedly, the ride only continued to get better as the day rolled on. Departing the Kanc, we reunited with Route 302 and headed east to Bath, where you’ll find The Brick Store, America’s oldest continuously run general store. The market is flanked by a popular ice cream shop, but we were headed for Polly’s Pancake Parlor on Route 117 for an afternoon feast of hotcakes and bacon.

From Polly’s we headed east to Franconia and followed U.S. Routes 3 and 302 to link together alpine lakes and waterfalls, crossing over our westbound route around Bartlett. There’s plenty to see and do on this section, but we kept an eager clip so we could start up the Mount Washington Auto Road, the capper of Ed’s “Best of the White Mountains” ride, well before the toll road’s cutoff entry time of 5 p.m.

A SLICE OF HEAVEN

Mount Washington (6,288 ft) is the most prominent peak west of the Mississippi and the highest mountain in the Northeast, but what’s really neat about it is the road that takes you to the summit. It’s just 7.6 miles long, but man, the views are forever. The drop-offs are too, which can rattle some, even though the mountain is well controlled by low speed limits and heavy traffic.

We arrived at the summit with just enough time to check out the museum and observation areas. This windy peak was also where I said goodbye to my new friends, since we’d head in different directions at the mountain’s base.

After snapping an action shot or two of the group halfway down the now heavily shaded northeastern slope of the mountain, park trucks pulled up, urging stragglers like me toward the gates. On a whim I asked if I could ride back up – “super quick” – to get a photo of the empty road.

I was floored when the guys said sure, I could have the 20 minutes or so it would take them to usher the remaining tourists from the lower lookout points.

And so began one of the most striking experiences of my 36 years of riding. I had the top half of Mount Washington to myself. Its Auto Road, which had been clogged an hour before, was now empty.

And I’m proud to say I didn’t rip up and down the famous toll road as I would’ve in the past. Instead, I focused every bit of energy on soaking up a scene that looked and felt like a literal slice of heaven.

By this point, my White Mountains ride had become way more than a report about a day trip in New England. It reminded me that I’m part of a huge, ever-present family. Showed me that true friends can be old, or new, or only in your heart.

No matter how far we wander, there will be other riders to make us feel at home.

A few years ago, Rider published my article about riding Vermont Route 100 from south to north, ending at the Haskell Free Library and Opera House, which straddles the U.S./Canada border. Someone wrote a letter to the editor asking how I got back. U.S. Route 5 runs along the east side of Vermont, and it happens to be another one of my favorite rides. It has all the elements of a great motorcycle road: beautiful scenery, fine curves, light traffic, and nice places to stop along the way. For this ride, I am again starting at the Massachusetts border and heading north, but it can also be run in reverse.

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I cross from Massachusetts into Vermont just south of Guilford, and the road almost immediately plunges into the woods, curling back and forth around the trees, a preview of what’s to come. First, I pass through Brattleboro. With 12,000 residents, it’s the largest town I’ll encounter today. Downtown consists of about three blocks of century-old brick buildings. It’s a little congested, but as soon as I clear the roundabout at the junction with State Route 9, everything eases up and I’m into rural Vermont in search of coffee.

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Putney General Store bills itself as Vermont’s oldest general store. It has creaky floors, good food, and – most importantly – good coffee. Properly caffeinated, I’m on my way, and U.S. 5 reveals its true character: rising, falling, and curving through the landscape. I lose myself in its rhythm.

In Bellows Falls, the falls don’t bellow anymore. The river was dammed in 1802 to aid with upstream navigation. Down near the river, a mysterious row of faces is carved into the rocks. The petroglyphs are believed to have been carved by the Abenaki hundreds of years ago. Curiously, a couple of the faces appear to have antennae. Evidence of an extraterrestrial visit? I ponder the question as I head out of town.

U.S. 5 resumes its swooping, twisting, and turning as it tunnels through the trees. Nothing is too tight or unexpected, just a wonderful ride, and I drink it all in. There is a zig and a zag in Springfield before the enjoyment continues to the American Precision Museum in Windsor. It’s housed in the Robbins and Lawrence Armory, where they developed the concept of interchangeable parts in the 1840s. One display in the museum is a belt-driven machine that turns gunstocks. As the blank for the stock spins, the cutters gracefully move in and out. The accompanying video is mesmerizing. In addition to many machine tools, they also have Bridgeport milling machine serial number 001 – if you’re a gearhead, you’ll understand its significance.

Past Windsor, the road resumes its rhythm as it carves up around a golf course. All along the way, I pass small farms with their quintessential red barns. Some have stands selling fresh veggies, and I pick up some tomatoes and sweet corn.

White River Junction, where the White River joins the Connecticut, has long been a transportation hub. The arrival of the railroad in the 19th century cemented its status. Today, it’s at the junction of Interstates 89 and 91 as well as U.S. Routes 4 and 5. All the amenities are near the highway interchange, and it’s easy to miss downtown, but with several restaurants to choose from, it’s a great spot for lunch.

A sign in the window at Dan & Whit’s General Store in Norwich declares, “If we don’t have it, you don’t need it!” Whether you are looking for an alarm clock or beer pong supplies, they have it. The paint department? It’s in a room behind the deli. Keep going and you’ll find a huge hardware section. The variety of stuff crammed into the space is remarkable, and it’s easy to get lost among the hams and hammers and hammocks.

Leaving Norwich, there is a change. The hurry is gone, and I glide effortlessly around the curves, passing by narrow valley farms and through the villages of Thetford, Fairlee, Bradford, Newbury, and Wells River. In Barnet, there is another perceptible change as U.S. 5 parts ways with the Connecticut River and starts following the smaller Passumpsic River. The curves are tighter, the hills are closer, and at one point, U.S. 5 slips between the northbound and southbound lanes of I-91 for a bit.

In St. Johnsbury, State Route 5A splits off as it passes the St. Johnsbury Athenaeum and the Fairbanks Museum & Planetarium. Both 19th-century edifices were built by the Fairbanks family. Their Fairbanks Scales Company changed how commerce was done, and the family spent much of their fortune locally. Fine Victorian architecture lines both sides of the road here.

After Lyndonville, U.S. 5 cuts through the landscape to West Burke, where I follow State Route 5A toward Lake Willoughby. The lake is the crown jewel of this ride. Nestled between Mount Pisgah and Mount Hor, it resembles a Norwegian fjord. The road runs up the east side, perched precariously between lake and ledge.

Past Lake Willoughby, there is a “North Country” feel. The rivers flow north toward the St. Lawrence River, the landscape is more open, and the trees seem shorter. Route 5A reconnects with U.S. 5 in Derby Center and heads for the Canadian border at Derby Line. There, within sight of the Haskell Free Library and Opera House, not far from the border, is a sign that declares “End 5.” Just beyond is Quebec and a large sign that says “Bonjour.” It’s time to head back. Maybe I’ll take Route 100.

At a time when American riders were fighting the Harley and Indian wars, Gene Townsend and Floyd “Washie” Washabaugh were unflinchingly Indian men. It was rumored their blood flowed a bit more maroon than the rest of us, having the distinct deep shade of the brand’s signature Indian Red color.

Over the years, the two men defended the Indian brand on dirt tracks across Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia. Gene, my grandfather, born in 1908, spent most of his racing years on an Indian 101 Scout sporting the #9 plate. He was a top regional amateur racer from the mid-1920s on into the war years, only to retire when a brush with a #6 bike sent them both through a fence.

The radio announcer covering the event mistook the upside down #6 machine as the #9 and mistakenly reported that Gene Townsend had been rushed to the hospital with serious injuries. My grandmother and her young daughter (my mother) were beside themselves when they heard the broadcast. Gene promised to never worry them again and quit racing on the spot. Washie, five years his junior, competed successfully on Indian Sport Scouts through the mid-1950s, and even had a short stint as a professional racer with Gene’s backing.

By 1948, Gene had owned his southwestern Pennsylvania Indian agency (what dealerships were called back then) for about 20 years. He had built his reputation as an exceptional rider and racer as well as an expert tuner. If Indian riders wanted the hot setup, Gene was the guy to see. Washie was granddad’s close friend, a fellow racer, and a fixture at the old shop. They shared a passion for three things: Indian motorcycles, racing, and storytelling.

I only knew Washie as an older man who rode his flashy old Indian Chief to my granddad’s shop. But I envisioned him and Gene as the vibrant and courageous young dirt-track racers in the old, dog-eared photographs taken in their racing days. The deep connection I developed with these older men was something I thought only my brother and I knew. Then I heard about Washie’s grandson, Ron.

We may have met at some point at the shop when we were kids, but Ron Washabaugh and I didn’t know each other. About three years ago, we met while attending the American Flat Track races at Williams Grove near Harrisburg. We immediately hit it off and began swapping stories of that magical old motorcycle shop and the deep appreciation and fondness we had for our grandfathers.

The most powerful memories for Ron and me were the racing tales told so passionately by old Gene and Washie. Through their words they painted vivid pictures of handlebar-to-handlebar racing adventures aboard their Indians on myriad local dirt tracks, as well as more distant venues such as Cumberland, Maryland, and Winchester, Virginia. They would either stuff a bike into the back of a sedan or ride their Indian Scouts to a track, remove the headlights and fenders to race, and then reassemble everything for the ride back home afterward. If they weren’t racing, they were organizing rides to watch others compete, like legendary AMA Hall of Famer “Iron Man” Ed Kretz at the Langhorne, Pennsylvania, track where he dominated the mile oval.

Ron and I decided to retrace Gene and Washie’s path to one of the legendary tracks they rode to back in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Ron and his son, Steven, and me and my son, Parker, conspired to chase Gene and Washie into the past on a journey to the old Winchester Speedway. As grandsons and great-grandsons, we would emulate the experience the two elders had back in the day. We would ride the National Road (U.S. Route 40) and other two-lane roads, stop where they might have stopped, eat at family-owned diners along the way, and find classic roadside motor lodges where they might have stayed. At every opportunity, we would celebrate their story and, at the same time, get to know each other and forge another generation of bonding around a common passion for motorcycles.

Ron and I both have vintage Indians, but for this excursion Ron was aboard his modern Indian Roadmaster, and I piloted my Indian FTR 1200 S Race Replica. Stephen rode his new FTR 1200 as well, complete with a number plate bearing his great-grandfather’s racing number, #64U. Parker rode a 2018 Harley, just for a little tension in the spirit of that old brand rivalry. (The H-D Heritage 114 is mine, and so is the kid; both are terrific, and any ribbing was in good-spirited fun.)

Last October, the Washabaugh boys met my son and me at a diner not far from the old shop. We ordered breakfast and gobbled up the vintage photo albums Ron brought with him. Although the food and conversation were delicious, we needed to get our planned adventure rolling. There would be more time to talk along the road, so we paid the tab and headed to the old Townsend cycle shop. The unexceptional building still stands (barely) just off the National Road, three miles east of Brownsville, Pennsylvania.

The modest shop was a hub of activity in its day, a gathering place where riders regularly came and went. Some visited to see what new machines and accessories had arrived. Others stopped by for a set of points, a condenser, and maybe a pair of spark plugs on their way through town. Most wheeled in for the conversation and the stories.

It was also the headquarters and ride origination point for members of Gene’s Scouts Motorcycle Club, an AMA-sanctioned club that served as the local riders’ social group and the sponsoring organization for motorcycle competitions. Washie raced as an AMA pro for one year under the Gene’s Scouts M.C. banner. Unfortunately, after just one season, the cost proved to be too steep, and he returned to amateur racing. Some things never change for aspiring racers.

Soon, the engines of our Indians (and Harley) fired to life in front of the old shop, echoing the hundreds of Indians that had gone before from that same spot.

We rolled out of the parking lot and onto Route 40. The first planned stop was just up the road at LaFayette Memorial Park, where we paid our respects at Gene’s and Washie’s family plots. We thanked them for the tremendous influence they had on our lives, saluted their adventures, and invited them to ride along with us inspirit as we retraced the path they took seven decades earlier.

Back on the road and heading east on the National Road, we approached Uniontown. I thought of the story Gene told me about a board-track motordrome speedway that was built there for motorcycle racing in the late teens of the last century. As a boy, he would climb a tall tree outside the grounds just to catch a glimpse of the racers flying by on the large, steeply banked wood-plank track.

Although the multilane highway now bypasses the towns, we took the old route that Gene and Washie would have followed through downtown Uniontown and Hopwood. We rejoined the highway on the other side where the pavement abruptly angled skyward, ascending Summit Mountain. Back in the day, this was a narrow two-lane ribbon that wound tightly up the steep hill – a rider’s dream. This stretch was the subject of many of the old timers’ stories as they recounted how they raced each other up the steep, twisting curves to the crest of the hill. They heeled their Scouts and Chiefs over so far into these corners that the frames would drag, levering the rear wheels off the ground momentarily. The trick, they said, was to hold the throttle open and let the bike reestablish traction without upsetting the chassis. Easier said than done!

Today, the road is a four-lane divided highway tracing the original circuitous path. Ron, me, and our boys turned up the wick on our machines as we ascended the hill. It was a hoot to drop down a gear and put ourselves, at least mentally, alongside our grandfathers and great-grandfathers on a spirited sprint up the mountain.

As we approached the summit, I signaled and the four of us wheeled off I-40 into the lookout at the peak of Summit Mountain. This was a spot where Gene, Washie, and the rest of their crowd regrouped countless times over the years. Summit Mountain was not just a road they took on the way to somewhere else, it was their local destination for sport riding. It’s where the guys tested their latest tuning and hop-up tricks. It’s where local Indian and Harley riders found out whose machine had the “soup” to capture the king-of-the-hill title for that week.

Ron and I used this pull-off to tell our sons stories we’d heard about this road and their great-grandfathers’ motorcycling adventures. We took turns contributing our own recollections, helping each other connect the dots where there had been gaps in our individual knowledge. Parker and Stephen stood by, soaking it all in.

Back on the road, we imagined the roadside stops the men might have made along their way. We proposed where they may have paused to stretch their legs, consult a map, check chain tension, or maybe add a quart of oil. Then we’d stop too. We took advantage of those roadside breaks to look through collections of old racing photos, racing publications, and pictures our grandfathers and their pals had taken along the road to different racing venues.

On occasion, we saw a turnoff to Old Route 40, most often a short spur of narrow two-lane that soon rejoined the newer main road. It was fun to ride a few of these old sections to capture the ride experience Gene and Washie had, but it was impractical to take each little detour. Other times we saw sections of Old Route 40 that were no longer accessible, including an area where an old stone arched bridge was once the path of the old National Pike. Gene and Washie probably traveled that same old stone bridge on their way to Winchester. We could only view it from the main road.

We paused at the old Clarysville Motel that looked like it might have been there when our grandfathers rode through. As it turns out, the place has been serving travelers for nearly 100 years. Other than the modern vehicles in the parking lot, it would be hard to distinguish 2021 from 1948 or earlier. Certainly, Gene and Washie rode by here many times, and may have even stayed on occasion when daylight expired.

In Maryland, the old highway began to rise, fall, and twist dramatically. This was the kind of road on which the boys surely had the old Indians dancing. They would have been intimately familiar with this fun section of road, knowing what lay ahead and anticipating it well in advance. After navigating a particularly enjoyable stretch, we crested a hill to discover the historic Town Hill Inn and overlook. This was a likely rest stop for Gene and Washie along their ride. It was a natural place to take a breather, check over the bikes, and enjoy the spectacular view across the wide valley below.

In Hancock, Maryland, we picked up Route 522 south and rode through quaint, historic Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, and on south into Virginia to our destination of Winchester.

Once in downtown Winchester, Ron led us to an iconic spot for a hot dog. Whether Gene and Washie ever stopped at this historic stand for a dog when they were in town, we’ll never know. But just in case, we thought we’d better have one since we were trying to capture the experience.

Since the Winchester Speedway is sometimes referred to as the old airport speedway, we meandered through the town following directional signs for the airport. After working our way along narrow roads that wound around the airport property, we came to the end of the road and were unexpectedly at the back side of the racetrack. No big sign. No grand entrance. As a lot of these rural speedways were, it was simply a venue where people gathered. The raceway was probably not much different than it was when Gene and Washie were last here together, except now the old wooden grandstands are gone, replaced with concrete and metal.

The beauty of these local facilities is how approachable the track personnel can be. We arrived midweek in the middle of the day and told our story. Hoping to have a picture taken outside the track at the speedway sign, our plan was thwarted when we realized there was no such sign and no suitable backdrop. Fortunately, the track folks invited us to bring the bikes onto the track and position them in front of the wall on the back straight where “Winchester Speedway” was painted in bold lettering. It was perfect. Ron couldn’t resist the temptation to ride around the dirt track just to run tires on the same clay that his grandfather once tore up on the #64U Indian Sport Scout.

We were all having a great time and didn’t want the adventure to end, but the autumn sun was already sinking low in the sky. With our mission completed and an abundance of pictures taken to commemorate our expedition, it was time to say our goodbyes. Ron and Stephen had about a two-hour ride east to get back home. Parker and I needed a bit longer for our westward trek on modern interstate highways back toward Pittsburgh.

On the way home through the darkness, I replayed the ride over again. In my mind, I overlayed images of Gene and Washie from 70 years ago on today’s images of Ron, Stephen, Parker, and me riding the same roads to Winchester. It felt good to ride with other descendants. It felt even better to be together, chasing Gene and Washie.

POSTSCRIPT

As much as the Indian boys would love to hear that the Harley broke down so often that we were forced to abandon our plans (or abandon Parker), the Heritage 114 did just fine. While it’s fun for us to see the old Harley and Indian wars heating up once again in this modern era (we can hear Gene and Washie piping in from the great beyond), the real benefit of that rivalry has been the development of better motorcycles from both brands. A little competition is a good thing, though Gene and Washie would still give Indian a slight edge. After all, it’s in their blood.

She’s taking her first ride on a motorcycle. Posthumously, as it turns out, but my Aunt Muriel is along for the ride, her ashes securely stowed in my top case.

Muriel had not been a fan of motorcycles. She found them too fast and noisy and their riders too careless and selfish. For decades she lived near the coast in south Florida where a grid of congested, multi-lane streets put motorcycles right next to her. The ones she encountered, at least the fast and loud ones that stood out in her mind, didn’t give her much to like.

While she enjoyed hearing stories of my long-distance adventures on motorcycles, she always made one thing quite clear: “You will never get me on a motorcycle!”

Now, as the miles are adding up, a thought keeps bouncing through my brain: Would Muriel have found this ride okay?

Her attitude about motorcycles and their riders evolved after she retired and moved to the mountains of western North Carolina – one of the best motorcycling regions anywhere. When Muriel first took up residence in the town of Franklin, my wife, Sheila, and I drove down for a visit. Muriel drove us to lunch at a barbecue place she liked in the town of Highlands.

As we motored south on State Route 28, the road became tremendous, with baby’s-bottom-smooth tar and continuous tight turns, nicely banked. On one side of the road were jagged outcroppings, and on the other a fast-moving river in a rocky ravine. She pulled her car into a lay-by and drove us behind a waterfall.

Muriel was not what you’d call an expert driver, but to her credit, she stayed in her own lane on this intensely curvy road. Sheila was pregnant at the time and sat nervously in the back seat, clutching her rounded belly and hoping our destination was close. In stark contrast, I was thinking how fantastic this road would be on a motorcycle. I mentioned this to Muriel, and she suggested I come back riding one. “Bring a friend,” she said. “More than one if you like.”

This invitation, I later learned, was despite a homeowner association rule that did not allow motorcycles in Muriel’s neighborhood. “I don’t have a motorcycle,” she explained, “but if visitors come to see me and arrive on their cycles, there’s not much I can do about that, is there?” Muriel believed that it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

Over the next 15 years, I took every opportunity to visit her with one, two, or three friends on motorcycles. We would arrive on quiet Hondas and BMWs, ride slowly through her neighborhood, and offer a friendly wave to anyone we encountered. Forgiveness was never required.

Muriel’s home was on a hilltop, providing an impressive view of the mountains where those roads we came to ride lay waiting. Her neighborhood emptied onto Route 28 (aka Moonshiner 28), and gems like Wayah Road, the Cherohala Skyway, U.S. Route 129 (Tail of the Dragon), and the Blue Ridge Parkway were there to be enjoyed. On every visit we discovered new roads.

We’d return from a day’s ride excited and full of stories, then take Muriel out for dinner. Over these meals, she got to know an orthopedic surgeon, a military logistician, a powerplant engineer, a metal fabricator, a warehouse manager, and a truck driver – each a gentleman, a gracious guest, and a motorcyclist.

One time Muriel casually asked if we’d help her change out the storm windows for screens. “You’ll keep an old lady off a stepladder,” she explained. We installed those screens, and on every subsequent visit we asked for her honey-do list. Leaky faucets, wobbly towel bars, and uncooperative wi-fi never stood a chance. Muriel came to appreciate that not every motorcycle was too fast and noisy, nor every rider too careless and selfish. When talking with her church lady friends, she referred to us as her gentlemen friends on motorcycles.

Now, on a warm Sunday at summer’s end, I depart my home in western Massachusetts and point my BMW R 1200 RT south and west. Weaving through the Berkshire Hills of Connecticut, I seek out places Muriel would have liked: Saville Dam in Barkhamsted, East River Road overlooking the Farmington River, and historic covered Bull’s Bridge across the Housatonic River. At the New York border, the road becomes Dogtail Corners Road … Muriel would have chuckled at the name. She would have been less amused by the 10-mph hairpin turns on Dutchess County Route 22 east of Pleasant Ridge Road, but I lean in to savor them.

I curve through the Bear Mountain and Harriman State Parks into scenic northern New Jersey, where Steve Efthyvoulou joins the ride. Over the years, Steve arrived at Muriel’s on a motorcycle more often than anyone except me, and on this ride, he is helping me to fulfill a request: Muriel had directed that her ashes be “scattered in the North Carolina mountains.” No specific location was indicated, so I asked Steve to join me in seeing this through appropriately. He agreed without hesitation.

The next morning, we are rolling at first light. Steve has plotted a route to keep us off main roads, so we’re riding through small New Jersey towns, past fields of corn ready for harvest. We cross into Pennsylvania, and in Lancaster County the distinct sights of Pennsylvania Dutch country abound. Amish farmers with a team of four mules are harvesting the first row of corn, right next to the road. A bonnet-clad teacher is holding class outside as children dressed in homespun clothes sit attentively. Farther on, an older group of boys enjoys recess on a baseball diamond. I’ve been told Monday is laundry day for Amish families, and countless clotheslines brimming with union suits and long-legged underpants offer anecdotal evidence. At an intersection, a young buggy operator struggles with her charge. Steve points out that teenagers aren’t typically the best drivers – even when driving a horse.

On Pennsylvania Route 372 we cross the expansive Muddy Run hydro power project, which uses excess power from the grid to pump water from the dammed Susquehanna River into a lake. During peak power demand, water flows down from the lake through turbines that generate electricity. The lake, essentially, is a battery. It’s also the center of an area operated as a park.

Midday finds us in Maryland, and what would a lunch stop in the Free State be without crab cakes? Muriel would have given two claws up. After a brief run through the state of West Virginia, we continue through western Virginia to Harrisonburg for the night.

In the morning we hop on Skyline Drive to curve through Shenandoah National Park. On a dreary weekday after Labor Day, the few vehicles we encounter are noticeably disregarding the painfully slow 35-mph speed limit. After we join the Blue Ridge Parkway, the rain begins. Beyond Roanoke we shift to U.S. Route 221, and the rain continues to fall hard and steady, but as Steve reminds me, a great road in the rain is still a great road. In the town of Boone, North Carolina, we call it a day. Torrential rain and flash flood warnings will continue through the next 36 hours, so we opt for a rest day in this happening college town in the mountains.

A day later, morning arrives with brilliant sun and temperatures in the low 40s. With heated gear plugged in, we make an early start. Branches and limbs litter the roads in a testament to the fierce storms that had rolled through. Steve shares warnings of road hazards ahead, a great benefit of bike-to-bike intercom. Especially in this region of Appalachia, the mountains form a creased and crumpled landscape, and the roads built into it twist and turn like a roller-coaster ride that you control. Rock outcroppings are common, and some are fascinating, such as one on U.S. 221, west of Blowing Rock, that looks like a face emerging from the mountain. Beyond North Cove we turn right on State Route 226 and left on State Route 226A to partake in another asphalt masterpiece.

Then, somewhere beyond Little Switzerland, an appropriate spot in the North Carolina mountains reveals itself and Muriel’s final request is fulfilled.

Professionally, Muriel had been a city clerk, certifying elections, officiating weddings, and serving as president of the municipal clerks’ international association. She traveled extensively for work and in retirement. A simple church-going lady, she loved conversation, voiced strongly held opinions, and agreed to disagree (agreeably). One thing Muriel and I disagreed about was motorcycles, though curiously they brought us closer together. She knew how much motorcycles matter to me and that she lived in a special place to enjoy them, so of course I should come visit with friends.

On this trip, I gained the satisfaction of ensuring that Muriel’s wish to find rest in the mountains of North Carolina was met, and in the process Steve and I enjoyed some amazing roads. But there’s no escaping the irony that Muriel’s final ride was also her first ride on a motorcycle.

There’s nothing quite as enjoyable as a motorcycle trip through a countryside bursting with the colorful hues of autumn. New York’s glory roads – the serpentine byways of the Catskill and Adirondack mountains – supply picturesque views of lakes, farmland, waterfalls, and small towns.

Naturalist Henry David Thoreau wrote: “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.” More often than not, I hear a different drummer and prefer solo excursions at a contemplative pace over fast-paced group ones. Nevertheless, I have a fantastic crew to ride with when companionship is desired.

After leading my friends on a tour of Pennsylvania, two of them – Darwin and Mae – offered to lead a tour of upstate New York. We started our journey just north of the New Jersey state line, taking New York State Route 84 through Sterling Forest State Park to Route 17A. To make time, we thundered up the New York Thruway (Interstate 87) for 80 miles through the scenic Hudson River Valley.

Near Saugerties, we continued north on Route 32, where the Catskill Mountains rise from lush farmland into the heavens like a fortress protecting the hinterlands. Catskill Park consists of 700,000 acres of preserved land, and the greater Catskills region encompasses hundreds of thousands of additional acres. Similar to the Adirondacks, Catskill Park is not a contiguous wilderness, which makes it a great place for riders to meander.

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Our eclectic group of motorcycles handled the snaking Route 23A with aplomb. Climbing into the mountains, we rumbled past the trailhead to Kaaterskill Falls, a two-tiered cascade that drops more than 260 feet. Route 23A wanders west through the northern Catskills, passing through small towns tucked among the mountains. Hunter Mountain Ski Resort offers rides on its Kaatskill Flyer ski lift, providing panoramic views of the Catskill, Berkshire, and Green mountains.

At the junction with Route 23, we turned east and stopped for lunch at Chicken Run Family Restaurant and Steak House in Windham. With a rustic ambience and good food, it is a perfect stop for riders. We continued north on the snaking and rolling Routes 21, 20, and 145, weaving through farmland and the lush landscape that lies between the Catskills and the Adirondacks. Connecting with Route 7, we passed just south of the impressive Howe Caverns and the Iroquois Indian Museum, which celebrates the art and history of the Iroquois Confederacy, a union of six Indian Nations that controlled large areas of New York prior to the Revolutionary War.

Wheeling north on smooth Route 30A, we approached the lower boundary of Adirondack Park and Great Sacandaga Lake. Testing our riding skills on twisties on both sides of the 26-mile-long lake was a true adrenaline rush, and crossing it on the Batchellerville Bridge supplied great views.

Connecting with Route 9N, we cruised to our two-night base camp in Lake George Village, home to the Americade motorcycle rally, which is scheduled for September 21-25 this year. Our motel, Americas Best Value Inn and Suites, has comfortable rooms, a heated indoor pool, an outdoor fire pit, and is within walking distance of several restaurants.

RELATED: Americade 2021 Rally Report

Lake George is a tourist village packed with activities. It is also the gateway to Adirondack Park, the largest park in the lower 48 states, covering six million acres and home to less than 135,000 people. Large tracts of wilderness surround small towns and villages, and hundreds of miles of well-maintained two-lane roads ramble through the park, making it a motorcyclist’s dream come true.

Saturday’s forecast was cloudy with showers, and Darwin had a long ride planned. Unfortunately, a bone spur caused me a lot of pain on our first day’s ride, so I embarked on a less ambitious solo ride. Mounting my Kawasaki Voyager, I traveled north on Route 9N (Lake Shore Drive) along the western edge of Lake George, one of the most impressive lakes in the Northeast. Its crystal-clear water and surrounding majestic mountains have given solace and joy to visitors for generations, as it did for me on this day.

My Voyager handled the rolling turns over Tongue Mountain with ease as I sailed through the Lake George Wild Forest. Passing Rogers Rock Campgrounds brought warm childhood memories of camping there with my parents and sister, and of continuing the family tradition with my two daughters, Lisa and Shannon.

North of Lake George is Mount Defiance in Ticonderoga. A narrow, bumpy road leads to the summit for an impressive vista of Lake Champlain, farmland, the Green Mountains of Vermont, and historic Fort Ticonderoga. Its stone walls and cannons pointing into the countryside make for an awe-inspiring sight. Built from 1755-1758, it was under British control at the beginning of the Revolutionary War until being captured by Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys in 1775. In 1777, the fortress was surrendered to the British after they hauled cannons to the summit of Mount Defiance and threatened to rain artillery fire down upon the Americans.

Near the fort is a ferry that crosses Lake Champlain to Vermont. Arriving just as it departed and seeing threatening clouds on the other side, I rode back to Ticonderoga and west on Route 74. It starts off like a highway but transitions to a country road as it climbs into the mountains and passes several lakes. With the sun peering through the clouds, the cool fall air caressing me and cleansing my lungs, and the pulsating rhythm of my machine singing in my ears, I felt the invigorating freedom of solo riding. That euphoria continued as I rode to Schroon Lake, Loon Lake, and Route 28 back to Lake George Village for a ride up Prospect Mountain.

The next morning, we retraced the first day’s ride until we connected with Route 30 near Amsterdam and weaved through the rolling farmland to the western Catskills. From Roscoe, we jumped on Route 17 for our return trip home. Cruising along, I reminisced about what a great trip it had been. We enjoyed camaraderie, fantastic roads and scenery, good grub, and tasty libations. Who could ask for more?

When I want to escape the daily grind for a few days, any motorcycle excursion I choose must have great roads, beautiful scenery, parks and interesting places to visit. The ride getting there is just as important as the destination, too. Rolling west on scenic roads through New Jersey and New York to the heart of Pennsylvania adds to the adventure. The North-Central Pennsylvania Wilds region contains 2.1 million acres of public land and is one of the least populated areas in the northeast.

With hundreds of miles of roads to explore and small towns with a 1950’s vibe that dot the landscape, the Wilds’ forests and mountains are also home to elk, bear, deer, coyote, fox and rattlesnake. In fact, if you really want to add an extra level of excitement to the trip, visit in the spring and participate in one of the annual rattlesnake roundups.

When I started talking about my trip, I thought a few friends might be interested, but eventually 12 riders on 10 bikes wanted to join me—a bit of a large group but manageable. Morning rain delayed our departure time for more than an hour, and we still left Ringwood, New Jersey with it coming down. Traveling west, we bounced along on the two-lane Greenwood Lake Turnpike and weaved alongside the lush forested mountains that line the blue waters of the Wanaque and Monksville Reservoirs. Climbing up and over Bearfort Mountain, we rode through a section of the 34,350-acre Wawayanda State Park and into the expansive farmland of the Pine Island black dirt region of New York State.

At Port Jervis the rain took a respite and we blasted off on Interstate 84, a scenic highway that cuts through the forested hills of eastern Pennsylvania. On weekdays, traffic is usually light. My Kawasaki Voyager 1700 handled the backroads with aplomb and did the same on the Interstate, eating up 65 miles of highway in no time along with the other nine bikes.

Taking Interstate 81 north to Waverly, we had a tasty lunch at the Camelot Restaurant and Inn. After lunch, the sky had cleared and the sun gazed down upon us like a mother admiring her newborn. Traveling west on State Route 632, this curvaceous two-lane road led us to famous U.S. Route 6, also known as the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. It honors the Union Civil War Veterans and travels 3,199 miles from Bishop, California to Provincetown, Massachusetts.

At Russell Hill, we exited Route 6 onto the rural and rustic State Route 87, which for the most part is decently paved and serpentines through wave-like Pennsylvania farmland devoid of any large towns. However, for the rest of the day’s ride, Mother Nature toyed with us like a heartless bully: rain then clearing, rain then clearing and so on.

We continued on Route 87 to the Forksville Covered Bridge. Built in 1850, the 152-foot-long bridge crosses Loyalsock Creek and is on the National Register of Historic Places. Since Wild Bill and Woodstock Mark wanted a snack, we stopped at the Forksville General Store & Restaurant, erected in 1851. The store’s motto is “Let’s get forked up.” It is known for its Philly cheesesteak sandwich, as well as other culinary delights. Nearby the Worlds End State Park has scenic overlooks, a swimming area, a campground and cabins.

Backtracking to State Route 154, which is a more rural route than Route 87, we weaved and bobbed through farmland and forest, the road occasionally caressing small villages where at times we felt like we had sailed into the 19th century. For the most part, this country road was in good condition all the way to State Route 414.

At State Route 287, we roared north to Wellsboro, gateway to Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon area and our home for the next two nights. Excellent views of the Canyon can be seen from Leonard Harrison and Colton Point State Parks, both roughly a 12-mile ride from Wellsboro. Officially named Pine Creek Gorge, it is almost 50 miles long, more than 1,000 feet deep in spots and a mile across at its widest. A rail trail runs the entire length of the gorge, which is surrounded by 160,000 acres of the Tioga State Forest.

Settled in 1806, Wellsboro’s population is 3,328, and its gas-lit streetlights and Victorian Mansions date back to the early 1800s. The town’s two-storied Main Street architecture screams rural America, and restaurants are within walking distance of several motels. After a hearty meal at the family owned The Steak House Restaurant and a few celebratory libations, we called it a day.

Saturday greeted us with sunshine and blue skies. We left early, our caravan of motorcycles pulsating through the cool morning air as we rumbled through Wellsboro to the friendly waves of locals. Heading south on State Route 287, we stormed through the countryside like the cavalry charging (Fort) Salladasburg, one of only five villages on this 36-mile section of road. State Route 973 led us west into a tunnel of greenery that enveloped this twisting, hilly roadway to State Route 44 north, which plunged us ever deeper into the Wilds.

Finding Hyner Mountain Road proved a bit challenging, so I stopped to consult my map and also asked Warp Speed Vito to program the road into his GPS. Approaching the turnoff, he signaled it was up ahead. Coming from the east, there are two roadways to Hyner View State Park; bypass the first unpaved one and take the paved Hyner View Road a few miles beyond on the left. This narrow, bumpy, twisting five-mile road leads to a spectacular panorama of the Pennsylvania Wilds, which incorporates 304,540 acres of Sproul State Forest. The West Branch Susquehanna River slithers alongside State Route 120 as it passes through several small river towns.

Stopping for lunch at the Sportsman’s Hotel & Restaurant in Renovo, Too Cool Drew and Scott, “the Hurricane,” suggested we dine on the patio. The food and service were good, as was the conversation with local riders who kidded us about being a bunch “tough bikers from Jersey.” Due to recent heavy rains, our waitress mentioned there might be bad road conditions leading to Kettle Creek State Park, but they all proved to be fine.

Riding west on Route 120 to Westport and then Kettle Creek Road is a beautiful run alongside the West Branch of the Susquehanna River and Kettle Creek; both were swollen from the rains. Cruising parallel to the creek surrounded by forest was like floating through the wilderness.

Kettle Creek State Park’s 1,793-acres lie in a valley surrounded by the mountains of the Sproul State Forest. The Alvin R. Bush Dam is 165 feet high and controls 226 square miles of drainage. A flood that wiped out a large portion of this area, including parts of Renovo, was the impetus for the dam and park. Today, Kettle Creek State park is home to elk, bald eagles, coyote, fox and bear, among other wildlife.

Taking a break by the lake proved most relaxing, so much so that Down-on-the-Farm Darwin took a nap in the grass. We enjoyed the view and the cool breeze blowing off the lake. Kettle Creek State Park has two campgrounds, cabins, a small beach and non-motorized boat rentals. For riders who like to combine riding with camping, the park makes a great base camp for additional exploring.

Nordic Linda ended our respite saying, “Hey, guys, let’s get moving. I want to enjoy the pool before dinner.” So we fired up our machines moving north on smooth State Route 144, which snakes its way through forestland to Route 6. Then we traveled east toward Pine Creek Gorge (Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon), and on to Wellsboro.

Sunday morning greeted us with smiling sunshine that would follow us home. Route 6, a designated Scenic Byway, would be our main route to New Jersey. Although not as impressive as some of the other roads we traveled, it is nonetheless a pretty ride through the countryside and small towns of an earlier era.

One of the most impressive views on Route 6 is from the French Azilum, also known as the Marie Antoinette (of “Let them eat cake” fame) Lookout. Eight miles east of Towanda, the view of the Susquehanna River Valley unfolded before our eyes like a colorful bedspread of farmlands dotting the valley, with low rising mountains sitting on the horizon.

At Dixon, I bypassed the congested areas of Route 6, taking State Route 92 (a bit bumpy) northeast to State Route 374 and then south on State Route 106, both smooth rural roads, and reconnected with Route 6 for a short time at Carbondale (State Route 107 is a shorter, simpler bypass). From Carbondale, we jumped on the Owego Turnpike, which serpentines through the countryside to Route 6 in Hawley.

Riding home from Hawley with the warm wind and sun caressing my face, I smiled with thoughts of the trip. Although we were a large group, all worked out well. We overcame a day of rainy weather and a few missed turns, but we had a great time. We sailed through forests and small towns, visited impressive state parks and rode our motorcycles to the top of panoramic vistas. Yet, there was still so much left to explore, making a return to the Pennsylvania Wilds an enjoyable inevitability.

Story and photos by Kenneth W. Dahse

The Pennsylvania Wilds Photo Gallery: