The landscape of northern Spain erupted with jagged peaks and rolled along lush green hillsides. Farms folded across every nook, and waves pounded the Atlantic coast. Mile after mile of smooth, tight curves were waiting to be savored. The evidence was all around: Northern Spain is a rider’s paradise. 

This past September, I joined IMTBike’s Essence of Northern Spain Tour. Leaving the planning to the pros at IMTBike, I simply arrived with my gear in Bilbao up north in the País Vasco (Basque Country) and enjoyed the ride. Over eight days, I explored new places with new friends, and fabulous riding connected every experience. This tour strung together curvy backroads through vast open spaces, rural pastoral lands, dense forests, and stunning coasts.

“Essence” tours like this one are new weeklong versions of longer IMTBike tours. Riders who can only get a week off from work can now enjoy full‑­on tours of northern Spain, southern Spain, Portugal, or Morocco with a shorter time commitment.

IMTBike has been perfecting the art and science of motorcycle tours for 27 years. Initially, the focus was the Iberian Peninsula (Spain and Portugal). Today, it also offers tours of Morocco, France, Italy, and the Alps; exclusive MotoGP tours in Catalunya, Jerez, and Valencia; global tours in Turkey, Japan, Thailand, Vietnam, and New Zealand; and self‑­guided and custom‑­designed tours.

Related: IMTBike Sardinia and Corsica Motorcycle Tour Review

My fellow tour members came to northern Spain from Costa Rica, Guatemala, Japan, the Netherlands, and the U.S. We all love travel, adventure, and motorcycling – that’s what brought us together – and as always, I enjoyed the experience of meeting and riding with people from countries other than my own.

Juanan Martin, our tour guide, has graduate degrees in history and travel journalism – perfect credentials for his role. Paulo Murteira, who drove the IMTBike support van, loves off‑­road endurance riding and was a laugh a minute! Both were excellent sources of information, assistance, and insight.

From IMTBike’s garage in Bilbao, Juanan led us to the Cantabrian Mountains and strings of hairpin turns. At Collados del Asón Natural Park, we paused to take in a spectacular panoramic mountain vista. That first day, we traversed five mountain passes en route to Santillana del Mar.

Our night’s lodging was a parador located on a magnificently preserved medieval town square. Paradors are historic, architecturally significant buildings such as former castles, monasteries, and manor homes. Owned by the Spanish government and operated as luxury hotels, paradors preserve these treasured buildings and keep them relevant. We stayed in three of them on this tour.

We also grew accustomed to dinner served on Spanish time: 8 p.m. at the earliest and frequently later. Your humble scribe is a big fan of seafood, and our daily menus included locally sourced fish and other delicacies from the North Atlantic, as well as delicious meat dishes, fresh fruits and veggies, and a variety of decadent desserts. No one went hungry.

Related: Iberian Escape | IMTBike Southern Spain Andalusia Tour Review

By the second day, tour members had organically clustered into three groups of four bikes each according to their preferred pace. This unofficial order enabled everyone to ride their own ride. Juanan told me that every tour is its own living entity, with distinct personalities and group dynamics, individual rider skills, weather and seasonal factors, and more. Everyone wanted something different from their tour experience, and Juanan and Paulo were focused on delivering for us all.

Later, we had our first of numerous encounters with livestock in the road. Flat, open expanses of pastureland are uncommon in northern Spain, so cows (and occasionally horses and goats) nibble on grass wherever they find it. They seemed accustomed to the passing vehicles, so I rolled off the throttle a bit and bellowed “Moo!” before motoring past.

Spain has the highest average elevation of all western European countries except Switzerland, and the mountains we rode around, over, and sometimes through were highpoints for me. Topping my list for beauty was Picos de Europa National Park. Founded in 1918, it was Spain’s first national park. Today it’s a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, and its natural beauty was wondrous to experience while carving great roads on a motorcycle.

While the mountains reminded me of the Alps, the Costa Verde (Green Coast) felt like Ireland. Okay, maybe not the palm trees. Herds of Asturian Valley cattle, the ubiquitous orange‑­colored breed raised in northern Spain, grazed on grassy hills overlooking the ocean. What a completely different scene from the brown plains of central Spain. As cows chewed greenery, surfers in wetsuits carried their boards down to the sandy beach below. Some of Europe’s most popular surfing destinations are here on Spain’s northern coast. I wondered if this convergence of cattle and surfers gave rise to the expression “Cowabunga!”

From cliffs overlooking the coast, we headed inland, where entertaining secondary roads wound us through agrarian landscapes past the hilly farms of Asturias. The most common crop appeared to be manzanas (apples), and most homes, even those that weren’t farmhouses, had a lemon tree in the yard. I admired the resilience of farmers here: There was hardly any land you’d call flat, yet orchards were abundant, tucked into every conceivable space. Livestock grazed along the roads here too.

Though the weather in northern Spain was mostly clear, warm, and dry, we rode through a late‑­day rain shower near Oviedo, the bustling capital city of Asturias. On the last stretch to our hotel, it was useful having a guide with local knowledge and a solid plan to lead the group though wet, busy streets to the tight quarters of a downtown hotel parking garage. ¡Bien hecho, Juanan! Well done!

That evening in Oviedo, we had dinner in a sidrería (cidery), a pub‑­like establishment where locals gather to drink cider, eat, and socialize. We enjoyed multiple courses of Asturian fare, washed down with sangría de sidra (cider sangria) made from the same variety of manzanas we saw growing on trees. It was an Asturian holiday, and patrons were joyously singing, their enthusiasm enhanced by pitchers of sangria. You don’t have to visit a museum to experience culture.

IMTBike scheduled a rest day halfway through this tour, but there was an optional lunch run to the seaside fishing village of Cudillero. Juanan led an exhilarating backroads jaunt through dense forest with little evidence of humans. Cudillero is built into rocky cliffs overlooking the Bay of Biscay. The ascending rows of colorful houses reminded me of similar towns I’d seen in Italy. At the edge of town, waves hitting the rocky shore presented spectacular views.

That evening, I decided to explore more of Oviedo on my own while speaking only Spanish. It had been decades since I studied Spanish in school, but after a few days in Spain, the fundamentals were coming back. I managed to buy a gift for my wife and order a fish dinner, celebrating these minor triumphs with una cerveza. ¡Salud!

Next morning, tour members huddled for our daily riders briefing with Juanan. He emphasized the need to depart the hotel as an organized group – and stay together as we left the city. A major bicycle race called La Vuelta, Spain’s version of the Tour de France, was passing through the area that morning. Juanan explained that the racecourse overlapped our route, and unless we rode through before race organizers closed the road, we’d have to wait. Thanks to this helpful attention to detail from our tour guide, our well­organized group passed by the busy staging area for La Vuelta that morning on a still-­open road.

After coffee, our route cut through Trubia River Gorge, where steep rock cliffs reached up on either side of us. Eventually we gained elevation, riding through the clouds until we poked above them into sunshine. I love when that happens. We crossed Alto de la Corbetoria Pass and then descended in tight curves to the Lena River to enjoy a stretch of easy sweepers to La Llama. The continuous flow of a curvy river road is always special on a motorcycle, and this tour included several of them.

Returning to the Picos de Europa, we relished technical curves and climbed in elevation before a lunch stop at Puerto de San Isidro, an alpine ski resort. At midday in late summer, skiers were notably absent. As our group prepared to move on, I let Juanan know I was going to ride alone for the afternoon. In this rugged and remote region of León, I stopped whenever I wanted to marvel at views of the mountains and lakes against a crystal blue sky. Since I opted for a GPS with routes pre‑­loaded, it was no problem arriving on my own schedule (and well before dinnertime) at that night’s parador lodgings.

To build roads through northern Spain’s mountainous terrain, engineers have designed some impressive solutions. After a mid‑­morning break in Potes, we reached Collada de Carmona Pass, where our mountain descent abruptly came into view. The road went through a hole cut through the cliff. Above the road, multilayer nets of steel mesh were moored onto the cliffside to catch falling rocks and held many they had snared. Then the road twisted down the mountainside, switchback after switchback, to the valley below. The smooth tar continued, snaking through positive camber curves along a meandering river for miles as the next mountain pass grew gradually closer. Up, over, and down again, the grin never left my face. At the next stop, our group of elated riders dismounted and exchanged high‑­fives. What a run!

While winding roads with dramatic views earned my top score on this tour, architecture was a notable runner‑­up. The ultra modern Guggenheim museum in Bilbao is a marvel of design, encased in a skin of titanium. In stark contrast, the Sanctuary of Loyola in Azpeitia was a grand example of Spanish baroque architecture. And with its classical civic buildings, elegant parkside homes, and captivating old town edifices, Oviedo was as pretty as any city I’ve visited.

By design, this tour put us on mostly empty roads. But on a warm, sunny afternoon in late summer, it was no surprise to encounter beach traffic along a scenic coastal route. The view of the seaside below was splendid from a gently curving road cut into the cliffside, and the tang of salt air scented every breath I took. A slower pace was fine for a bit.

Then we found ourselves riding into the unexpected. An altered traffic pattern sent us into a congested cobblestone pedestrian zone where some kind of celebration was underway. Clearly, this wasn’t the plan. Folks were stunned by the arrival of a dozen motorcycles, but Juanan quickly calmed any concerns. The first few riders managed tight, bumpy U‑­turns, but those farther back were squeezed into an alley. Juanan pivoted several of those bikes 180 degrees on the sidestand – first time I’d seen that technique used on cobblestones – and in short order, we rode off as folks smiled and waved.

Carving more curves through the Basque Country and down the steep hills into Bilbao, our tour came to an end where it began: IMTBike’s garage. We parked our bikes one last time as Juanan poured us a cava toast. Later, over our final dinner as a group, we relived favorite moments of this exciting tour and started planning more adventures.

In 2024, the Essence of Northern Spain tour runs June 29‑­July 7 and Sept. 7‑­15. Prices start at 3,845 euros (about $4,100 USD) for a single rider on a BMW G 310 R and sharing a double room. Larger motorcycles and private rooms are optional. Not included in the tour price are air tickets, lunches, gasoline, drinks, tolls, GPS, personal spending, and tips. Learn more at the IMTBike website. 

See all of Rider‘s international touring stories here.

The post IMTBike Essence of Northern Spain Tour Review appeared first on Rider Magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See more stories from Scott A. Williams here.

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

This Favorite Ride doesn’t include a route map because it’s all about a single destination: the corner of 300 Road and 600 Street in Moonshine, Illinois. Getting there is a personal experience for every rider who makes the Moonshine Lunch Run.

You may recall the story I wrote about the last official Moonshine Lunch Run, which took place on April 29, 2018. But on that day, as I gathered with other long‑­distance riders outside the Moonshine Store, munching my Moonburger under a cool Illinois rain, I sensed it wasn’t the end.

Related: Reflections on the Moonshine Lunch Run

The original concept for the MLR, conceived by our late farmer friend Terry Hammond, just required folks to ride from somewhere far. Terry knew certain people would make the long, often difficult ride to Moonshine to connect with other riders who’d do the same. The hamburgers were great, but the fellowship of long‑­distance riders mattered most.

Earlier this year, Bob Cust of Swansea, Illinois, announced he was hosting an RTE (ride-to-­eat) at the Moonshine Store. I shared this with Steve Efthyvoulou, who first brought me to Moonshine in 2010. “I’m in,” he said immediately. We reached out to other MLR alums, including Michael Boucher and Randy Bridgewater, plus newbie Chuck Smolka. All in.

Folks who’ve done a ride to Moonshine understand its special challenges of long distance, changeable weather, and physical endurance. For me, Moonshine has been the eventual destination of multiple April rides that had me leaving Massachusetts and then joining friends to carve mountain roads in Pennsylvania, Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, or Kentucky on the way to southeastern Illinois. Moonshine was a waypoint on some trips to more distant riding regions, like the Ozark Mountains of Missouri and Arkansas, and I earned my Iron Butt certification on the Curt Gran Memorial Moonshine 1000.

If you want a genuine Moonshine Lunch Run experience, you really need to ride there during April, when Terry Hammond invited folks to come. The temperature could plunge below freezing, but it might also reach 90. You can count on rain, and snow is possible. It’s also tornado season; one year, a twister touched down a few miles from our motel. The sun might even shine!

Last April, my ninth run to Moonshine was on backroads through the Connecticut Berkshires and New York’s Hudson Valley, over the hills of northern New Jersey, across Pennsylvania’s northern tier, and then onto the increasingly flat, open spaces of rural Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois.

Yes, more people visit southeastern Illinois for summer activities. The fairgrounds in DuQuoin host a race in the American Flat Track motorcycle racing series. The Illinois 300 NASCAR Cup race takes place in Madison. There are celebrations for German heritage in Waterloo and Hoyleton, Swiss heritage in Highland, and roots music and barbeque in Mt. Carmel. There are sailing events, a world trapshooting championship, art fairs, music festivals, county fairs, and much more.

Since I’ve always ridden to Illinois in April, I haven’t experienced summertime there. But I’ve enjoyed visiting the town of Casey, some 14 miles from Moonshine and home of the world’s largest mailbox, pencil, pitchfork, wind chimes, rocking chair, golf tee, and other oversized curiosities. Since my last visit, someone added the world’s largest antlers. Every MLR has brought me to Casey, and getting there always involves varying degrees of challenge. Other riders who made it overcame their own challenges. As Terry would say, we “get it.”

Since the MLR is no longer an official event, there weren’t 1,000‑­plus riders like before. This time there were a few dozen, with the largest contingent being members of the Motorcycle Tourer’s Forum. But as I’ve come to expect, the effort to get there – and to connect with other riders who did the same – was well-rewarded.

I ran into Mike Brown of Harrisburg, North Carolina, whom I’d seen at multiple MLRs. “If you have been there, you want to go back,” he said. “If you haven’t been there, you need to go!” Mike brought along a first‑­timer, Bob Sweet of Concord, North Carolina. Unlike most riders who come on touring bikes, Bob made his first ride to Moonshine on a naked bike, his 2021 Triumph Street Triple 765 R.

“When we left Harrisburg at 4 a.m., it was dark and drizzly,” Bob told me. “I couldn’t tell Mike ‘I can’t do this.’ I got over the mental barrier, and here I am.” Bob gets it!

I met Darryl Halbert, who has been to every MLR since 2011, though somehow our paths never crossed. He used to live in Atlanta, Georgia, and his ride to Moonshine would include entertaining curves through the Appalachian Mountains. He’s retired now and living in Denver, Colorado, so he rode to Moonshine across the plains. “There’s a lot of Kansas between here and Colorado,” he chuckled.

I also met Greg Rice, a genuine legend in the long‑­distance rider community, who told me about another “lunch run” he had made. As the Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, resident recalled, “I wanted to take a picture of my bike by the Panama Canal.” So Greg rode to Panama. He got the picture and had a burger for lunch. His round trip took 10 days.

Related podcast interviews

• Greg Rice: Ep. 29 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast
• Scott A. Williams | Ep. 41 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast

Significantly, some MLR traditions carried on this year, like dinner at Richard’s Farm on Friday evening and Renee Handelman’s cinnamon buns on Saturday morning. I enjoyed my Moonburger with cheese and bacon at a picnic table beside the Moonshine Store with other riders, and it was good. Soon after, my group began our rides home to Texas, Michigan, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Massachusetts.

Riding east together, Steve and I endured the wettest day in our combined Moonshine history. Over dinner in a warm, dry restaurant, we laughed about it. Adventure is just discomfort retold at leisure, and we’ve had our share of adventure on our runs to Moonshine. Bone-chilling cold. Scorching heat. Nasty storms. Roads that became rock-strewn goat paths despite maps promising otherwise.

Was this year’s Moonshine Lunch Run just like old times? Not exactly. But it was today’s version of good times, shared with other long-distance riders who get it. I expect Terry would be good with that.

See all of Rider‘s touring stories here.

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For riders who want to carve continual curves through forests, along rivers, and past farms, you won’t find better roads in so focused an area than in the southeast corner of Ohio. The landscape of constantly rising and falling hills results in roller coaster roads that will have you laughing with joy. The rush from blind rises, off-camber curves, and decreasing-radius corners is never-ending. Add abundant wildlife, farm vehicles, and the occasional Amish buggy to the equation and you quickly realize how crucial it is to stay laser-focused on the task at hand.

Scan the QR codes above or click here for Day 1 or here for Day 2

With the benefit of routes created and inspired by Ed Conde of New England Riders, many riders from the Northeast and Canada make the trek south to savor these roads. The small, historic city of Marietta on the bank of the Ohio River is an ideal base of operations for a tour of this region. We found multiple options for lodging, a lively downtown with a variety of great restaurants and pubs, and even a motorcycle shop that will come in handy if your tires lose tread faster than expected.

Get travel, lodging, dining, and other information about Marietta, Ohio, here.

See all of Rider‘s Ohio touring stories here.

Our group of experienced sport-touring riders, including my good friends Steve Efthyvoulou, Randy Palmer, and Bob Holahan, confirmed a plan over breakfast and then began our day heading north and east of Marietta on Ohio State Route 821. Beyond Whipple, a right on Dalzell Road had us winding through forested hills. The constant elevation changes could be a cartographer’s worst nightmare, but they’re a motorcyclist’s dream come true. Our group was connected via bike-to-bike intercom, which enabled the lead rider to offer helpful warnings:

Wow, this curve tightens fast!

Watch for gravel in that right hander.

The road drops left after that blind rise … weeee!

At State Route 565, we turned right, curved past Zwick Park, then headed south on State Route 260 through Quarry and to New Matamoras. The curves were incredible! At State Route 7, we turned left toward the township of Fly, then left on State Route 800 back up into the hills. Beyond Jackson Ridge Church, we turned right on State Route 255 to Laings, then stayed on 255 back to Sardis and Route 7.

Request a Windy 9 Ohio motorcycle route map here.

Route 7 is designated the Ohio River Scenic Byway. Scenic, yes, but it’s mostly flat and lacks challenging curves. However, it was useful for taking us to the next incredibly curvy road up into the hills: State Route 536 in Hannibal. A short diversion onto Long Ridge Road and Short Ridge Road brought us up to Kiedaisch Point Park. From there we enjoyed the vista overlooking the Hannibal Locks and the bridge crossing the Ohio River to New Martinsville, West Virginia.

With our stomachs signaling lunch, we decided to cross that bridge and found Quinet’s Restaurant. The buffet is extensive, and an impressive display of local history covers the walls of this New Martinsville institution. Appetites satisfied, we crossed back into Ohio and picked up State Route 536 all the way to State Route 78, where turning right put us on a parallel track with Sunfish Creek, which meanders and then widens before emptying into the Ohio River at Clarington. Route 7 sent us to State Route 556 where we turned to enjoy more curves all the way to Beallsville and State Route 145.

At Jerusalem, a left pointed us south on State Route 26, the National Forest Covered Bridge Scenic Byway. For most of its length, the byway parallels the Little Muskingum River, and we happened upon Rinard Covered Bridge. It’s the third covered bridge to be constructed on this location, the original dating to 1875. On these winding southeastern Ohio roads, shoulders vary from narrow to nonexistent, so this stop was noteworthy because it was a chance to pull safely off the road to shoot photographs. Continuing on Route 26 provided us miles of smiles back to Marietta.

The mental focus required to follow all these curves, coupled with the physical demands of countersteering and shifting body position on heavy sport-tourers, had us feeling tired at the end of the day. After returning to Marietta, we walked to Tampico Mexican Restaurant and rehashed a fantastic day over a relaxed meal and a pitcher of margaritas.

Your humble scribe is an early riser, so the next morning as the sky began to lighten, I set out to explore more of downtown Marietta. Reading the many historical signs, I learned that pioneers established the town in 1788 as the first permanent white settlement of the United States Territory Northwest of the River Ohio. Many original settlers were Revolutionary War officers who were offered land grants as compensation for military service. Artisans from my native New England also settled here, bringing with them skills that helped Marietta quickly become a center for shipbuilding. Between 1800 and 1812, nearly 30 ocean-going vessels were built here in eight shipyards.

Another piece of riverfront history is the place where we stayed, the Lafayette Hotel (c. 1918). Inside, the hotel’s lobby feels like a formal parlor. Realtors might describe the rooms as “quaint” and “cozy,” with the period furnishings and fixtures including styles long forgotten by interior designers. Our tidy room overlooked the Ohio River, the Highland Avenue Bridge, and lovely riverside homes on the opposite riverbank in Williamstown, West Virginia. Even the parking area for our bikes overlooked the river. Modern-day riverboats still dock at that very spot, as one did during our stay, so it’s fitting that this lodging retains the feel of the riverboat era.

After breakfast at the hotel, our group was ready for another day behind the handlebars. Since any road is different in the opposite direction, we began by reversing course on one of our favorites from the day before, Route 26. The weather was perfect, and we enjoyed glimpses of the scenery when we could divert our attention briefly from the curvaceous road. In Woodsfield, we found Ida’s Lunchbox, which other riders had recommended, and enjoyed a light lunch and conversation, while a farmer at the next table listened attentively to the agriculture report on TV.

We continued on 26 to Jerusalem, turned west on State Route 145, kept twisting southwesterly along Duck Creek to Lewisville, and then took State Route 724 west to Carlisle. A different stretch of Route 260 wound us south along East Fork Duck Creek to Harriettsville. Just past town, we turned right on State Route 564 and began to follow Middle Fork Duck Creek to Caldwell. State Route 78 took us out of town and curved to a highlight of the day: Big Muskie Bucket, the business end of one of the largest machines ever to move on land.

Big Muskie was a walking dragline designed to remove earth and uncover a coal seam that lay 180 feet below the surface. This colossal machine was electric, powered by a 13,000-volt “extension cord,” and so enormous it’s hard to wrap your brain around the scale. It was 1.5 times longer than a football field, more than 222 feet tall, and weighed 12,000 tons. The bucket, which weighs 210 tons when empty, could grab 325 tons of earth in a single “bite” and hold 220 cubic yards. In 1969, the entire Morgan High School Marching Band, nearly 50 members strong, played inside the bucket at Big Muskie’s inaugural ceremonies. By 1991, more efficient mining methods and increasingly stringent environmental regulations sidelined Big Muskie. Now the bucket is all that remains, rusting away in a park on Route 78 near Bristol.

We briefly reversed course on 78 to State Route 83 and headed south for gentler curves down to Beverly. There, a left on State Route 339 moved us into farm country and past Crooked Tree. A right on State Route 821 had us paralleling Duck Creek through Macksburg, Elba, and Warner. A right on State Route 530 delivered the day’s last dose of twisties down to Lowell, where leisurely State Route 60 returned us to Marietta.

One thing we had missed thus far was a ferry ride, so we made a quick run up Route 7 to the Sistersville Ferry, which has carried people across the Ohio River between Fly, Ohio, and Sistersville, West Virginia, for over two centuries. Several types of ferry have been used throughout the company’s history, and the one currently in use is a type none of us had seen before. Vehicles drive onto a ferry barge, which is propelled through the water by a tug. The barge is double-ended so it doesn’t have to change direction with each river crossing, but the tug needs to turn around after each landing. The tug’s bow is attached to the barge’s side via a pivoting mechanism that resembles an automotive trailer hitch. When the ferry reaches the other side, the captain simply pivots the tug 180 degrees to cross the other way. Pretty slick.

After the ferry, we made our way back to Marietta, where our dinner spot was a short stroll through Ohio Riverfront Park to Levee House Bistro for, of all things, lobster – prepared by a chef from Boston no less!

Find info about the Triple Nickel and Zanesville-Muskingum County, Ohio, here.

Commitments back home had us heading east the next morning, but we plan to return to this region for more great riding. To the north is State Route 555, the renowned “Triple Nickel” (see Ken Frick’s story “Riding Ohio’s Triple Nickel”). To the west are gentler curves leading to Hocking Hills State Park, where riders can enjoy some of Ohio’s best scenery and stretch their legs on short hikes. The hilly landscape is much the same on the West Virginia side of the Ohio River, with roads such as West Virginia State Route 20 from New Martinsville to Mannington and U.S. Route 250 from Mannington to Moundsville, keeping riders on their toes and making joyful noises.

If you prefer roller coaster rides that you control, a motorcyclist’s amusement park awaits you in southeastern Ohio.  

The post Roller Coaster Hills: A Southeast Ohio Motorcycle Tour appeared first on Rider Magazine.

The Sardinia & Corsica – Riders’ Heaven tour was my first guided motorcycle tour. It won’t be my last. For nine days in mid-October, I rode with 10 experienced riders from six countries on intensely winding roads through spectacular scenery. We toured the Mediterranean islands of Sardinia (an autonomous region of Italy) and Corsica (an autonomous region of France). Adriatic Moto Tours made it easy: Just show up with your gear and ride.

Related: European Motorcycle Touring: What to Know Before You Go

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 1: Olbia, Sardinia

After exploring Olbia’s old town on foot, I returned to the hotel to find 10 motorcycles lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. I recognized a smiling face from the Adriatic Moto Tours website and said hello to Anže Colja, our guide for the Sardinia & Corsica – Riders’ Heaven tour. Six riders in our group had taken an AMT tour before, and one was taking his fifth.

Later, at the introductory briefing, Anže offered insights about riding these Mediterranean islands. “The roads are fantastic,” he said, “the best in Europe. Every day we will ride narrow, twisty, technical roads, but you’re not on a racetrack, you’re on vacation. Can you see far enough to pass? Wait until it’s safe, then commit and go! Take care of each other, and have fun.” 

Born and raised in Ljubljana, the capital of Slovenia, Anže is an economist by training and an affable soul by nature. He speaks Slovenian, English, German, and Croatian, plus enough Italian and French to help us order meals in restaurants that cater to locals rather than tourists. And, as we discovered, he’s one talented rider.

Anže explained that our group would stay united, though not always together, using the system of Static Corner Marking. Anže would always lead, one rider would bring up the rear, and riders in between would alternate “marking” where the route turns by remaining at the junction until the next rider arrives. Each rider also had a GPS with daily routes pre-programmed, so it was hard to get lost. And if we wanted to go on our own, we simply let Anže know.

We also met Peter Cvelbar, who drove the support van and managed tour logistics. Peter is a staff sergeant in the Slovenian Army, and he used a portion of his leave to work this tour. Each morning, we found our bikes wiped down and positioned for a smooth departure, but he did much more. Our luggage was waiting for us in each new hotel room. Bike or equipment issues were quickly addressed. We were given information regarding travel, food, and culture. Both disciplined and easygoing, Peter worked his magic behind the scenes so all we needed to do was ride.

After being assigned bike keys, registration papers, and GPS units, we checked out our machines. I chose a BMW F 900 XR for its torquey twin-cylinder engine, flickable handling, and strong brakes. Its Galvanic Gold colorway certainly stood out too.

When we gathered for dinner, a guide’s principal value – local knowledge – was revealed. In Olbia’s old town, Anže led us off the main pedestrian way and along a succession of narrow cobblestone alleys, past a sign declaring “NO PIZZA,” and downstairs to an intimate restaurant. Staff were expecting us, and our table was waiting. After dessert, we returned to the hotel and traded stories on the portico, eagerly anticipating the next day’s ride. (Breakfast and dinner are included on this tour. Riders pay for their lunch, alcoholic drinks, and fuel.)

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 2: Olbia – Ajaccio

Our first day riding took us north along the famous Costa Smeralda (Emerald Coast) and past the granite and basalt rock formations that form the two islands. The route was scenic and curvy, but Anže said we hadn’t seen anything yet.

In Santa Teresa, we caught a ferry to Bonifacio, Corsica, a historic city on a cliff, and then rode north toward Ajaccio, birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and the capital of Corsica. The roads to Ajaccio became tight and technical, with curves that just kept coming.

Along the coastal road in Coti-Chiavari, I spied an unpaved lay-by with a stellar view, so I pulled over. While shooting photos, I walked up to the highest rocky point. A man was sitting there, seemingly alone with his thoughts, but he gestured for me to join him. “Parlez-vous anglaise?” I asked, hoping he spoke English. He shook his head. “Non.” So instead of talking, we shared the dramatic vista in silence. After a while I said, “Au revoir,” and we shook hands genuinely, cementing a friendship of coincidence. 

At dinner in Ajaccio, Anže asked the group which of the next day’s two route options we preferred. I was leaning toward the longer option (more riding), but he suggested the shorter option through the sparsely populated interior. “Less traffic,” Anže assured me. “And twistier.” Local knowledge proved its worth once again.

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 3: Ajaccio – Corte

Corsica has more mountains and rivers than any Mediterranean island, and the roads hug the constantly changing landscape. After a mid-morning break for coffee, we rode to the Calanques de Piana, spiky granite formations that rise from the sea in shades of red, brown, and orange. The road is carved into their sides. Places to stop and safely enjoy the view are few, but Anže knew just the spot. I set up a group photo against a red rock backdrop; that one’s going in a frame.

Next, we turned inland for the mountain route. Flat land is rare on Corsica, so it’s common to see cows grazing along the road. They seemed accustomed to motorcycles passing by, but we slowed down and gave them space. I had to wait as two cows crossed a one-lane bridge at a leisurely cow pace. We also encountered large pigs foraging in the road on fallen chestnuts. Later, Anže explained that Napoleon had planted chestnut trees along roads in lands he controlled to provide his troops with shade and a source of food. The pigs appreciated that too.

We continued curving and gaining elevation. Our hotel in Corte overlooked the rugged landscape we rode through. The view from my room was stunning. For dinner, I chose local pork (chestnut fed?) roasted for six hours and served with cannellini beans. It was succulent – definitely not your mom’s pork-and-beans.

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Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 4: Corte – Bonifacio

Anže mentioned at our first rider briefing that he’s an instructor at a high performance riding school. I rode behind him as we ascended mountains through one hairpin turn after another. I noticed he was looking back at me in his mirrors – always the instructor.

We built a fair distance between us and the next rider, so Anže pulled into a lay-by to regroup. While we waited, I asked how I was doing through the hairpins and what I could do better. He suggested looking even deeper into corners and modulating speed in turns using the rear brake instead of rolling off. On these roads, I practiced this technique over and over. When our group stopped in Cozzano, Anže and I continued the lesson over coffee.

That evening, we caught a dazzling sunset from the limestone cliffs at Bouches de Bonifacio, a nature reserve. After some free time exploring the narrow, cobbled alleys of Bonifacio’s old town, Anže led us to a small restaurant that caters to Corsicans.

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 5: Bonifacio – Alghero

As we boarded the ferry that brought us there three days ago, we left behind the most intense, continuous twisties I’ve ever ridden. Anže assured me there would be more in Sardinia. Along the route in Località Multeddu, we visited Elephant Rock, which lives up to its name. Farther on, we stopped at the coastal town of Castelsardo, known for colorful homes built into the mountainside above the sea.

We savored more twisties and sparse traffic until we approached our destination of Alghero. In this historic and congested city, Static Corner Marking kept the group united. We all arrived safely at our hotel as the sun was setting over Rada di Alghero.

The Carlo V Hotel and Spa is rated five stars. It’s the fanciest hotel I’ve ever visited while riding a motorcycle. Throughout this tour, our accommodations exceeded my expectations. The dinners were impressive as well. Each evening, Anže ably selected starters for the table, then we all ordered a la carte from the menu.

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 6: Rest Day in Alghero

A day away from continuous, intense twisties afforded my mind and body a well-earned break. Fueled by a growing Italian vocabulary, a willingness to wander, and two scoops of mid-morning gelato, I explored the sprawling old town. After lunch, four of us enjoyed afternoon cocktails and a swim in the hotel pool, which wasn’t heated – brrrr!

When my stomach signaled it was ready for dinner, I searched for cucina tipica Sarda (typical Sardinian cuisine) and chose pescata de giorno (catch of the day). The server took me to select the specific fish the chef would prepare for me. “You like grilled with patatas and pomodori, signore?” Sì, grazie. The chef served my dish tableside, and everything was delicious. A lemony concoction arrived for dessert, then I ordered a dram of 16-year-old scotch to complete the experience. Walking back to our hotel, I ran into tour members dining al fresco on the seaside promenade. We all had a good day off.

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 7: Alghero – Cala Gonone

Refreshed and ready, we followed Anže along the winding coastal road south to Bosa. As we rolled through town, a smiling old woman stood on her stoop and waved to us. I blew her a kiss in return, and by the look of her reaction, I suspected it made her day.

We kept twisting east on roads less traveled through Macomer and on to our first stop, the Nuraghe Losa of Abbasanta. It’s one of thousands of cyclopean stone monuments unique to Sardinia and built by a Bronze Age people called the Nuraghi between 1,600 BCE and 1,200 BCE. Anže arranged a private tour, and a delightful woman named Pina helped us appreciate the monuments and the people who built them.

Over lunch, Anže reminded us to embrace Sardinia’s offering to riders: roads with practically perfect grip and corners that seem to continue forever. AMT schedules the Riders’ Heaven tour twice a year: in spring (before tourist season begins) and in fall (after it’s over). That’s why these roads were largely ours.

For afternoon coffee, we stopped in Orgosolo, which has murals painted on buildings throughout the town. Most feature themes of social resistance, and many seem informed by the style of Picasso’s Guernica. 

Next, we carved curves down the mountains to Cala Gonone. Our hotel was across the street from the Mediterranean Sea, and several of us enjoyed a swim before dinner. Thankfully, the water was warmer than the hotel pool in Alghero. After dinner and more conversation, I retired for the night to the sound of waves crashing ashore outside my window.

Adriatic Moto Tours Riders’ Heaven Day 8: Cala Gonone – Olbia

After following closely behind Anže for several days, I volunteered to bring up the rear, which presented opportunities to enjoy scenery that wasn’t whooshing past in a blur. Beyond Lula, we gained elevation along a meandering road chiseled into the mountainside. Up to the east were bald peaks reaching skyward. Off to the west was a rolling valley of green forest interrupted occasionally by terraced farmland. A road was carved into the next distant mountain too, leading to a village perched on a rocky hillside. Farther west were multiple rows of rock-topped mountains fading into the horizon.

From Nuoro to Bitti, the roads zigged and zagged through cork plantations and over mountains. Eventually we reached Olbia and concluded this incredible journey at the same hotel where it started. Peter welcomed us with champagne, and we raised our glasses in celebration. What a trip it had been!

At our final dinner, Anže told me that Sardinia and Corsica are his favorite places to ride, without question. “Not for the sights or food, which are still good, but for the roads, which are insanely good. The grip is great, the curves have positive camber, and you just keep twisting through mountains, forests, and coastlines. And off-season, when the crowds are gone, you can just go.”

AMT’s Riders’ Heaven tour was a fantastic experience for me at every level: bike, roads, routes, scenery, sights, cities, towns, people, food, accommodations, leadership, logistics – the whole package. And leveraging a guide’s local knowledge brings it all together.

In 2023, the Sardinia & Corsica – Riders’ Heaven tour runs May 13-21 and Oct. 14-22. Visit the Adriatic Moto Tours website for more information.

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It was one of those Christmases where family was in far-flung locations. With just my wife, daughter, and me at home, important holiday obligations were addressed by early afternoon. The sun burned in an azure sky as the temperature rose into the 50s – rare for late December in Massachusetts – and your humble scribe was getting antsy.

“Go take a ride,” my wife insisted. “We’re going to bake cookies and you’ll be in the way. Get out of here.” 

Making a plan as I rode along, I headed west over the Connecticut River toward the hill towns for fun roads, blissfully free of traffic. I calculated that I’d have time to reach Huntington before turning north for a ways, and then back east to make it home before dark.

Riding on U.S. Route 20 through the outskirts of Westfield, I spied a statie stopped at an intersection on the left, just ahead. (“Statie” is what Massachusetts natives call our state troopers.) Ideally, he’d be turning right, back toward the city, but without warning the cruiser cut in front of me. I hit the brakes – hard – and delivered a bwaaaa! from my bike’s air horn. Hey, hey, hey, I’m riding here! Inside my helmet I uttered words I do not recommend saying to a police officer in person.

If I had cut off an officer in such a manner, I’d be producing my license and registration. It was clear to me that the officer didn’t look before abruptly pulling out. Had he looked, he’d have seen me approaching, wearing high-viz gear and a white helmet, burning four accessory light arrays in addition to the OEM headlight, and riding the speed limit on an empty road with no obstructions on a clear day. I was there. If a careless civilian had cut me off, I may have dropped a gear and zipped by, but it was a statie.

Now, though, he was pulling away at a good clip. No lights or siren, just noticeably above the limit. I decided to keep up. Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest decision, but I stayed back at what I concluded was a respectful distance – and I started to make really good time. This section of U.S. 20 is the Jacob’s Ladder Scenic Byway, and from here out to Becket it’s my favorite stretch of 20 in the state. The road parallels the Westfield River to Huntington, then gains elevation in Chester up to Becket through a succession of S-curves. I know this road well, but I had never ridden it quite so briskly.

There’s a state police barracks in Russell, and I started thinking that this cruiser with the distinctive blue and gray paint scheme would turn in, but it did not. Approaching the village of Huntington, the statie slowed the pace. I followed suit. Was he preparing to turn north onto State Route 112? That’s another great winding road in western Mass that earned a state-issued scenic byway designation. It’s where I was planning to go, but given these unusual circumstances I felt I should be open to alternatives. One was presented when the statie continued west on 20.

The rapid rate resumed through Blandford State Forest to the town of Chester, where again the statie eased off a bit going through the village. But when those S-curves came into view, the Ford Police Interceptor sped up for that familiar, winding, uphill run.

By now this unexpected and exhilarating ride was taking me a good 40 miles out of my way, and I knew I had to start heading back east at some point. The day’s unusual warmth was melting snow, and with clear skies, the temperature would plummet once the sun went down, so black ice would be a threat. But with little traffic other than a lead-footed statie, I wanted this ride to last.

In Becket, the cruiser turned right onto Route 8 north. Recalculating … I could head north through Becket and Washington up to Hinsdale, then start a return trip east on Route 143 through Peru, Chesterfield, and Williamsburg. From the standpoint of entertainment on a motorcycle, this was all good. When I reached Northampton, I could hop on Interstate 91 and then the Mass Pike to straighten out the last leg home.

I stuck with the statie and turned north on Route 8. The snaking tar hugged the landscape past forests and farms, but I realized it couldn’t last much longer. As the center of Hinsdale approached, I made my move, signaling my intent to turn right on 143. The statie flashed his light bar twice and continued straight.

I interpreted those flashes to mean, “Sorry I cut you off back there, hope you enjoyed the ride.” Yes, officer, I thoroughly enjoyed the ride. Forty extra miles flew by in not as many minutes, leaving me with a wide grin and a great Christmas memory. No hard feelings, sir, but please watch for motorcycles.

For other stories from Scott A. Williams, click here.

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Back when BMW’s R nineT motorcycle had just been released in the U.S., I got to take one for a test ride. The iconic Boxer motor, nicely sorted chassis, and fabulous brakes impressed me through some sweet curves along Scantic Road and Crystal Lake Road in north-central Connecticut. The bike’s crisp neo-retro style caught the attention of pedestrians when I stopped to take pictures. But two guys in a highly modded Honda Civic were most impressed.

Waiting on their left at a traffic light, I noticed they were laughing quite hysterically. The driver pointed at the bike and called over to me. “Where’d you get the BMW logos?” His question was punctuated by more laughter.

“They must have put them on at the factory in Germany,” I said.

“Yeah, like BMW makes motorcycles.” “Right, since before they made cars.”

They were still laughing when the light turned green.

There’s anecdotal evidence that many people aren’t aware BMW makes motorcycles. I was shopping in my hometown grocery store, and as is often the case, I was wearing a baseball hat. This one featured a BMW roundel with “BMW Motorcycles” embroidered underneath. In one particular aisle, I had stopped to compare items on the shelves when I heard quiet laughter. I looked around to see what I was missing.

“That’s funny,” said the only other shopper there.

“Excuse me, what’s funny?”

“Your hat.”

“What’s funny about my hat?”

“BMW doesn’t make motorcycles.”

“Actually, BMW has been making motorcycles longer than cars.”

“You’re kidding!”

“They make sportbikes, touring bikes, adventure bikes, cruisers, you name it.”

On my phone I pulled up a picture of my R 1200 RT. “Here’s mine,” I said, zooming in on the BMW roundel on the side panel. “See?”

“Oh, my god, you’re serious! I can’t wait to tell my husband. He isn’t going to believe this!”

Related Story: BMW Announces Updates to Select 2023 Models

Then there was the brief conversation I had a few years ago with a teenager doing his best to look cool while pumping gas into a minivan. His parents and siblings were in the van, a potentially embarrassing situation for a teen, but he took control of the situation by calling over to the motorcycle guy.

“Hey, man, nice bike!”

“Thanks,” I replied as everyone in the van turned to see.

“What kind is it?”

“A Honda ST1300.”

“Wow…really? I never knew Honda made motorcycles. Pretty cool.” He hung up the nozzle, gave me the slightest nod of acknowledgement, and hopped in the van.

My motorcycle brand philosophy is “Two wheels good,” but I’m more than happy to return a little shade thrown my way. While stopped on my ST1300 and waiting to turn right, a Harley-Davidson Ultra pulled up next to me in the left turn lane. The bike had gleaming two-tone paint and acres of spotless chrome. The couple on board sported matching leather jackets with flowing fringe. The rider looked over at me and shook his head. “Nice scooter,” he laughed, with obvious satisfaction. Witty guy.

I raised my visor to reply. “Thanks, man. Nice tractor.” His passenger laughed so hard I thought she’d fall off the bike. Slack-jawed, the guy turned his gaze away and waited for his opportunity to turn left.

Related Story: Perceptions | Being a Good Samaritan Motorcyclist, by Scott A. Williams

At that same intersection one sizzling summer day, a young woman in a doors-off Jeep Wrangler pulled up on my left. She looked over at me, dressed as I always am in an armored, all-weather riding suit, and announced, “You sure look hot in that suit.”

“Thanks a lot!” I replied with a thumbs up. She seemed confused at first by my response, then laughed, looking a little embarrassed at her unintended double entendre.

Sometimes it’s the motorcycle passengers who initiate a conversation. While I waited in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, to board the ferry to Maine, the cold gray sky poured a drenching rain. A ferry terminal worker directed a group of bikes to the staging lane at my right. I exchanged waves with the riders and passengers. Despite the wet conditions, the only “raingear” I could see was on a couple of passengers who had cut out head and arm holes in large plastic garbage bags to fashion rain vests. One of the passengers called over to me, “Are you dry in that suit?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Warm too.”

She thwacked her rider on the back of his helmet and commenced a tirade of I-told-you-so’s.

On a much drier day, I approached the old (and structurally deficient) Lake Champlain Bridge between Chimney Point, Vermont, and Crown Point, New York, and an official-looking woman wearing a uniform and high-viz vest signaled for me to stop. “Good morning, sir,” she began, “I’m conducting a survey for the DOT that will inform the design of a new bridge at this location. Can I ask where you are going today?”

“Calabogie,” I replied.

“Excuse me…where?”

“Calabogie, Ontario, Canada.” I said it was located on a lake west of Ottawa and, pointing to my GPS, explained that my planned route would take me through the Adirondacks and into Canada via the ferry from Cape Vincent.

“Calabogie,” she said, making a note on her clipboard. “That is going to be an outlier. Enjoy your ride!”

I do enjoy my rides, sometimes made more memorable by the things people say to the motorcycle guy.

This column from longtime contributor Scott A. Williams originally appeared in the September issue of Rider.

Related Story: Scott A. Williams | Ep. 41 Rider Magazine Insider Podcast

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Cars aren’t motorcycles, although they can be useful. When I need to move more than a motorcycle can carry, or when it’s winter and the snow is piling up on the roads or when I must transport a passenger who’s not interested in riding there, a car is a good tool for the job.

But for enjoying the journey, most cars leave me wanting. Sitting behind locked doors and looking out through closed windows, occupants of a car miss clues to the world outside. The fragrance of blooming wildflowers, the sweetness of freshly cut hay, the tang of shade tobacco curing in slat barns, or the bite of salty air near the ocean are masked. Cars even coddle drivers and passengers with the creature comforts of home: climate control, carpeting, courtesy lighting, reclining seats, and more.

In a car, you are indoors looking out. You’re in a cage. On a motorcycle, you are outdoors, part of the environment and its sensory experiences. While I was riding through southwestern Nova Scotia bound for Cape Breton, the shore road didn’t always provide me a view of the ocean, but olfactory clues informed me that the tide was out. I also detected what a meteorologist described as “more of the smell of everything” when barometric pressure drops. Sure enough, the rain came while I had eggs, toast, and coffee in a roadside diner. My riding gear is waterproof, so despite a preference for sun, I didn’t let the rain spoil my ride.

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After breakfast I continued east along the shore. Hard, steady rain pelted my helmet, surrounding my head with the sound of popping corn. I pulled into the port town of Lunenburg, a remarkable sight even in the rain, and followed signs to the tourist welcome center where there was sure to be a restroom. Following much needed relief, I looked through the tourism exhibits in the lobby. In the continuing downpour, a sedan drove into the parking lot. Four car doors flew open and slammed shut, and four people sprinted to the building. Two teenaged girls arrived first, complaining about how wet they’d gotten. Their parents, trying to make light of their soaking, joined in the chorus, but one look at me in my wet riding attire made the father feel lucky.

“You must be soaked to the skin!” he said. I smiled and assured him that I was dry underneath my riding gear.

“Really?” he replied. “That’s funny. You’re riding on a motorcycle and you’re dry. We’re riding in a car and we’re soaked!”

I agreed; it was funny. Even the teens appreciated the irony. I pointed out that warm-air hand dryers in restrooms work great to dry clothes, and the girls and their mother disappeared into the ladies’ lavatory.

“Sorry you’re having to ride in bad weather,” the father said.

“There’s really no bad weather,” I replied, “just bad gear for the weather you’re having.” He smiled and asked what it’s like to ride a motorcycle in the rain. “It’s actually a lot like driving a car in the rain,” I explained. “Visibility and traction are reduced, braking distances are increased, and you need to watch your speed. What’s different on a motorcycle is you’re outdoors.” The father nodded and then headed into the gents’ facilities.

A few minutes later when he returned, still waiting for his wife and daughters, he continued the small talk. “So where are you headed?”

“Halifax tonight,” I replied, “then Cape Breton.” That was his plan too. He’d come along the shore road in search of scenic views, but fog and rain ruined that. I asked if he had noticed the scent of salt air along the shore road or felt the change in temperature as the road moved closer to the water, or if he had smelled low tide or detected that smell of everything before the rain came. He admitted noticing none of those things.

“That’ll happen when you’re in a cage,” I said.

“A cage?” he asked.

“A car.”

“Yes, a cage,” he chuckled. “I get it. That’s funny, too.”

His wife and daughters emerged from the ladies’ room with smiles and dry clothes, ready to resume their trip. Silently, I wondered how they would get back to the car without getting wet again. The father’s wry smile revealed what he was thinking: His family would soon be back inside their cage, insulated from the outside world in wet clothes, while the motorcycle guy would be taking it all in, outdoors but dry in his gear.

“Well, enjoy your ride,” the father said with a wave. “I’m sure you will. You’re not in a cage.”

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In western Connecticut, State Route 20 curves around the northern end of Barkhamsted Reservoir and down to Riverton. Traffic is scant, the scenery sublime and the road full of sweeps and undulations. One beautiful fall day, I pointed my BMW that way. After making the River Road loop through Peoples State Forest, I reversed course toward home. At the bridge by the old Hitchcock Chair building, a flagman signaled “STOP.” Ahead was a well-preserved Buick of late ’90s vintage, with two passengers of significantly older vintage up front. When the flagman waved us through, the Buick turned left … where I was headed. 

Curves on this road limit the view ahead and opportunities to pass safely are few. To my delight, the Buick’s right blinker flashed and the driver waved me around. I sped by and returned the wave, back on that delicious winding road for some Buick-free motoring. 

Near the top of the reservoir, I pulled into a lay-by for a break. Later, as I prepared to carry on, that same Buick pulled in. The old-timer got out and opened the door for his lady friend. I said hello and thanked him for letting me pass back there. He looked me in the eye and grinned. “It’s too nice a day and too nice a road for a young guy like you on a nice bike like that to be stuck behind a Buick!” He was right, of course, and we shared a knowing laugh. Continuing home, I realized the old gent and I had the same plan: enjoy a beautiful day. 

Often, a great day of riding is made better by folks who let those motorcycles by to enjoy the winding road. This happened frequently on a recent visit to New Hampshire’s White Mountains region. It also happened in the Wilds of northern Pennsylvania, where winding back roads and dense forests conspire to limit sight distances. More often than not, slow-moving drivers waved us around. 

In Massachusetts, a box truck ahead on the meandering Mohawk Trail pulled into a scenic view parking area. I rode on by and the truck pulled right back onto the road. I understood why and waved my thanks. The driver flashed high beams. Further on, a car pulled over at the start of the Mount Greylock Scenic Byway, right where the road begins miles of twists and switchbacks to the summit. The driver and I exchanged waves. In Vermont, I experienced similar courtesy along a 200-mile route made up almost entirely of roads no one saw the need to pave.

Recently, I was riding the same stretch of Connecticut 20 where I met that old gent in the Buick. To you, kind sir, and to the other courteous drivers out there, this motorcyclist waves his thanks. 

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Roads that curve along a river are among my favorites to explore on two wheels, and western New England has them in abundance. The hilly terrain and seasonal climate promote the formation of rivers, and for millennia people have used rivers and land along their banks to get from place to place. River roads, particularly the smaller and less traveled ones, often follow the same basic path they did before motorized travel, and the best ones are a roller-coaster ride for motorcyclists.

If you like to move right along and keep stops brief, this 300-mile route through western Massachusetts and southern Vermont delivers a full day of curvy two-lane entertainment. If you prefer a moderate pace and relaxing along the way, there are ample opportunities to enjoy views, savor local cuisine and visit small New England towns. One of southern Vermont’s ski towns will have amenities you need for an enjoyable night on the road.

This route begins and ends in South Deerfield, Massachusetts. I roll north onto State Route 116, one of the Bay State’s official scenic byways, and within a couple miles it curves to follow the Mill River and then the South River. The tar is fresh so my grin stretches even wider than the last time I motored through here. Just as my mirrors reveal the sun peeking above the hills, I come upon a pasture of Holstein cows whose interest is piqued by the approaching pulse of my BMW’s boxer twin. I pull over briefly to bid the bovine ladies good morning.

Not eager to meet early-rising constabulary, I roll off the throttle coming down the hill into the center of Conway. These days this quaint village is known for the annual Festival of the Hills, but once it was a thriving mill town. In 1767, Caleb Sharp’s Gristmill was Conway’s first waterpowered mill. A series of dams managed water from the South River to power mills that ground corn and flax, sawed lumber, spun cotton and fulled wool. The unreliable nature of waterpower was compounded by cycles of drought and flood, so mill owners gradually upgraded from waterpower to coal-fueled steam power as the 1800s progressed.

After another snaking stretch of Route 116 to Ashfield, a right on Baptist Corner Road leads me to a pair of grazing horses that catch my attention for their brightly colored fly masks. I don’t want to spook them so I slow down. The curious chestnut mare nickers my way and shakes. Farther along I pass a hillside farm where row upon row of neatly shaped evergreens await a Christmas yet-to-come.

It adds a few miles, but it’s fun crossing the Deerfield River on Bardwell’s Ferry Bridge, just to hear the clomp of rubber tires on the wooden deck. At Shelburne Falls I point north on State Route 112 and follow the North River, then at Adamsville Road I turn left to follow the North River’s West Branch. Many rivers in these parts break into two or even three branches that converge again downstream. At State Route 8A, I hang a left and savor another great winding road. It soon parallels Mill Brook and carries me across the Bissel Covered Bridge to the village of Charlemont.

Heading west, the Mohawk Trail (State Route 2) follows the Deerfield River and then the Cold River. Originally, the Mohawk Trail was a Native American footpath that connected the Connecticut and Hudson River Valleys. This section through the Mohawk Trail State Forest to the town of Florida includes some of the state’s most beautiful river scenery. The road gains elevation as it carves along the cliffside, but a right turn on Whitcomb Hill Road quickly gives it all back, heading steeply down toward the Deerfield River.

The route turns left onto River Road and hugs the Deerfield. Just upstream, this river once was a source of cooling water for the Yankee Rowe Atomic Electricity Company. The nuclear plant, hidden from view in the woods, closed in 1992 and was decommissioned. Now on warm weather weekends, the river is frequently packed with tubers, canoeists and rafters enjoying the current, which is helped along by scheduled dam releases upstream.

River Road becomes Readsboro Road and at the Vermont border it becomes Tunnel Street. Such renaming of a continuing stretch of asphalt is not uncommon in New England, especially on back roads. In Readsboro, I go left on Vermont State Route 100 South, which, in this stretch, actually points northwest. This heading keeps me on the Deerfield River’s West Branch to the junction with State Route 8, where a right puts me on another curvy gem to Searsburg.

Turning right on State Route 9 offers sweepers to Wilmington where I reconnect with Route 100. Here 100 is sign-posted north and actually goes that way. It’s one of Vermont’s best-known scenic roads, curving with the Deerfield River’s North Branch to Dover and then Blue Brook, past the Mount Snow ski resort and through the Green Mountains National Forest. This road can get crowded in summer and during fall foliage season, but today, in early September, it’s practically empty. At a lay-by along slow-flowing Blue Brook, I enjoy the sandwich I packed.

Route 100 winds its way north through Jamaica and Rawsonville to South Londonderry. There I turn sharply right onto Main Street, then left on Thompsonburg Road along a stream, up toward Magic Mountain ski area. A right on State Route 11 takes me over to State Route 121, which meanders with the Saxtons River. In Grafton I turn right onto Townshend Road, which becomes Grafton Road in Townshend. This asphalt ribbon runs along the Saxtons River’s South Branch.

Now a right onto State Route 35 has me running south. The tree cover is so dense I can’t see the Mill Brook that my GPS assures me is flowing just to my left. At Townshend I make my way to State Route 30. Scores of cars, pickups and SUVs parked on the shoulders are evidence of the West River’s popularity as a warm weather recreation destination.

Beyond Townshend Dam I stop for a break in the quintessential Vermont village of Newfane, which has opportunities to experience Vermont’s interesting history and often-curious culture.

On West Street I roll up to the celebrated Four Columns Inn, where a classic car is frequently displayed on the front lawn. Today it’s a 1955 Nash Rambler Greenbrier two-door station wagon in two-tone green. Nash was arguably the first American manufacturer of the post-war era to make compact cars, bucking the bigger-is-better trend, so this beautifully preserved albeit humble antique is a significant automobile.

Only a few steps to the south, and continuing Vermont’s characteristic white-clapboard architecture, are the First Congregational Church and the Union Hall. Originally built as a church in 1832, the Union Hall in 1872 became a site for community events including plays, dances, movies and that time-honored method of democratic local government, the town meeting.

After this brief and worthwhile respite, I continue south on 30. Just before Williamsville, I lean west toward Dover along the Rock River down to Route 100 south and all the way to Jacksonville. There, I bear left onto State Route 112, which runs south along the North River back into Massachusetts, through Colrain and Shattuckville to the Mohawk Trail.

Again, I find myself heading west along Massachusetts Route 2 and the Deerfield River, back to Charlemont. This time I turn south on 8A, cross the Deerfield River, and then follow the Chickley River through Hawley to State Route 116. There I turn right (north) and in a few miles cut hard left onto River Road, which parallels the Westfield River along the edge of Windsor State Forest.

At State Route 9, I turn right and then left onto Worthington Road, which becomes Cole Street and then East Windsor Road. By cutting right onto State Route 143, another River Road soon emerges, this one curving with the Westfield River’s Middle Branch all the way to Skyline Trail in Chester. Continuing to Huntington, a left onto State Route 112 north follows the Westfield River then the Little River to Worthington. A ways on Route 112 makes a hard right turn at an intersection with Trouble Road. (I haven’t been looking for trouble, but I find it anyway.)

In Cummington, 112 overlaps 9, the Berkshire Trail, which closely follows Meadow Brook and the Swift River, then past Goshen and the Mill River’s West Branch. I roll off approaching the village of Williamsburg. In the center, I turn left onto North Road, which becomes Ashfield Williamsburg Valley Road, then Ashfield Road, then South Ashfield Road, and then Williamsburg Road (because…New England) along the Mill River’s East Branch. South of Ashfield, this pleasantly winding road with so many names ends at Route 116. This is the same stretch of 116 that started my ride. Bonus—it’s a hoot in both directions!

Of course there are other New England river roads that aren’t part of this route but definitely worth your time (see sidebar). Wherever you find such roads, take a ride along the riverside. 

More favorite river roads in New England:

• VT 102 curves with the Connecticut River from Canaan to Guild Hall, Vermont.
• NH 16 follows the Androscoggin River and then Bear Brook from Berlin to Errol, New Hampshire.
• NH 13 snakes along the Piscataquoag River’s South Branch from Goffstown to New Boston, New Hampshire.
• U.S. 5 gently winds along scenic stretches of the Connecticut River, especially between Barnet and Norwich, Vermont, and again between Ascutney and Rockingham, Vermont.
• MA 8 twists alongside the Farmington River’s West Branch from New Boston to West Becket, Massachusetts.
• U.S. 7 hugs the banks of the Housatonic River between Falls Village and New Milford, Connecticut.

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