2006 BMW Motorcycle Owners' Association Heading to Vermont

Burlington Vermont will be the site of this Summer's BMW MOA (Motorcycle Owners' Association) Annual Rally. And I can't wait.

Being a native New Englander I've enjoyed many a fine Vermont back road in my time. A fellow rider from Maryland recently posted that he desired a recommended scenic route to Burlington. I sent him the following recommendation. It is a ride worthy of any wanderlust addict, whether one's travel of choice is by motorcar, bicycle, or (as I prefer) motorcycle.

We begin in the historic Berkshires of Massachusetts. We are now ready to head north into the Green Mountains of Vermont. The towns along the way are in themselves destinations of worth my friends: Towns like Bennington, Vermont, home to not only a fine and famous College (where my sister Betsy was the best and brightest of them all), but also the site of General John Stark's famous Battle of Bennington. It was in Bennington, in fact, that Stark hammered out the first New Hampshire license plate. It said "Live Free or Die." It still does to this day.

Here we go for an incredible cruise:

Once you get to the Berkshire Mountains of western Massachusetts, say around North Adams, MA, you have an unbelievable route up to Burlington via Scenic Route 100 to Readsboro, then Route 8 over the mountain to Searsburg (check out the huge wind turbines you ride past), then Route 9 to Wilmington, then back onto Scenic Route 100 all the way up through Killington and Stockbridge.(There are tons of great taverns for lunch near Killington).

Stay heading north on Route 100 until you reach the Town of Hancock, where you really want to turn left and enjoy the beauty of Scenic Route 125 over to Middlebury. You can then head north on Route 7 to Burlington.

And that is just one of dozens of awesome rides in Vermont. If you're coming to Vermont from New Hampshire or another eastern approach, you still want to get onto Route 100 as soon as you can. Great riding. God willin', I'll see you there.

Are, Am, Now, Alive, Smiling

Time can be a limiting concept. Sitting here tonight I think of time in the past sense. Memories flood the mind.

But when riding, time literally morphs. It releases the limitation of pastness and embraces the everything of presentness. It gourges on a presentness blending into a future that swiftly is our now.

I imagine time on a ride as a sphere compressing and expanding until past, present and future blend into a single sensuous now. Every sense is heightened. The air, the wind, the sun, everything that surrounds us becomes part of us.

We are the wind: we are the sun. We are. Are, am, now, alive, smiling.

A Bethel Night Scene

A Bethel Night Scene
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

Sean and Quin ready to rip

Sean and Quin ready to rip
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

Lunch at the Snow Cap Lodge

Lunch at Snow Cap
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

When winter's snows force the Montauk to hibernate, Montauk Rider and family (sons Quincy and Sean, sister Marie and brother-in-law Bill) hit the slopes for some great skiing at Sunday River.

It's a Wonderful Life

George Bailey learned a lot from Clarence the Angel. He learned that life, no matter how complex, is good. He learned that friends and family are worth more than all the gold in the world.

Watching Clarence work with George tonight, I was struck with nostalgia for the Summer of 1973 when my brother Mark and I crossed our wonderful continent. We spent a couple of weeks heading west through Quebec and Ontario, before deciding to head back south into the US via Thunder Bay.

Tonight, sitting here with a foot of snow having fallen yesterday, I'm reminiscing about Mark's enthusiasm for the unknown. "When do you think we'll get to California," I'd ask each night as we tented down. He would smile, the way older brothers with more knowledge of the world can smile, and say things like, "That all depends on what happens tomorrow and which direction we decide to ride."

So true.

There were days that we headed north because the early July days were growing hot. Then we'd be in North Dakota, and it was cold. We'd cruise south the next day. It didn't seem to matter then that we were supposed to get to San Francisco before August came around.

Looking back, I think we meandered perhaps the least direct approach to San Francisco possible. It didn't seem to matter at the time. We got up each morning, ate some pie, drank some coffee, and then looked at a map to decide the day's agenda. "Hey," I'd comment, "I always wanted to see Arizona." Mark would laugh and comment "Let's make sure that happens soon."

I guess the best recipe for motorcyle adventure is a big brother, a couple of bikes, and the opportunity to spend an entire summer just cruising to nowhere and everywhere.

Tolkien wrote that "The Road Goes Ever On." It does indeed. I wish only that its travelers did not pass so soon. I miss them.

Fifty Miles East of Fargo

Like all great storytellers, my brother Mark is recalled by those who knew him as more than just a character: He truly was larger than life.

When Mark shared his stories all attentions were rapt. No one interrupted. We willingly walked into the fanciful world he conjured.

To be fair Mark came from a full monty of matchless storytellers. His lineage was of Irish and French origin. Go figure!

Slight exaggeration is viewed by good storytellers as essential to a good tale. To us a story needs a pulse of patina as surely as it requires plot and timing. Truly only a fool destroys the moment's rapture by discounting the oral offering. Long before the movie industry implored viewers to suspend their disbelief, storytellers gave flight to imaginations without usurious charge.

Mark surely enjoyed motorcyles and fast cars. Thrill was his mantra. But to be complete, Mark even more loved women. All of them. He adored and worshiped them. They were in many ways his holy grail.

This is a short tale of Mark and motorcycles and women, though not in that order. It is also a moral play, as it shows that sometimes, perhaps not often, the tales of a storyteller are far truer than one might expect.

Way back in the summer of 1973, Mark and I decided to head to the West Coast on our bikes. We both were riding BMW R75/5's at the time.

Before we could leave, however, Mark insisted that he needed to spend a few days with his girl, Leslie, who was summering on an isolated island in Casco Bay, Maine. So we spent almost a week there, me pretty much alone, and they, well they were in love.

On days that I grumbled about the need to head west he would reply, "Don't worry man, I'll take you to Detroit Lakes, Minnessota, where there's at least a dozen girls for every guy." I of course discounted such paradisical pronouncements as testosterone-stimulating hogwash.

Finally we departed the island. We cruised the byways of Maine and New Hampshire, crossing through Mount Washington Valley before evening. We were in Montreal the next day, and northern Quebec Province the next. The adventure then headed west across Canada, finally reentering the States via Thunder Bay, Ontario.

It was there that Mark suddenly again mentioned the name "Detroit Lakes." We had been on the road for 2 weeks by then. Our nightly habitat consisted of LL Bean sleeping bags and a small tent. We had long ago abanoned regular bathing, though we stopped to swim in lakes and rivers daily. Still the lack of hot water and soap was becoming obvious.

So, too, was the lack of female companionship. Mark was still in love, but I was between ladies that summer. As a confirmed serial monogomist, the in-between status means I had no one. I confessed as much to Mark that afternoon as we entered Thunder Bay.

"We're not far from Detroit Lakes," Mark matter of factly declared. He said it as if the mere mention of the place equated with a guaranteed abundance of girls. I took the bait. I asked him what was so special about this town.

"Detroit Lakes, Minnesota," began Mark, "is a small town about 50 miles east of Fargo, North Dakota, on Route 10. I stopped over there back when I was in the Army, when our train let us off there for a few hours. I was swarmed with girls the moment I got off the train. Seems there are almost no guys there."

"You're full of it, Mark," I relied, and changed the subject. That night, as we bedded down near a State Park, Mark brought it up again: "You'll see what I mean soon buddy."

Two days later, we pulled into the Town of Detroit Lakes. It looked like any other town to me. Being hungry, I suggested we get a bite a the A&W joint we had just passed on Washington Avenue. He agreed.

After getting off the bikes and removing our helmets, I strode to the take out window. Inside I saw a cute girl with a warm smile looking back at me. "What can I get you hon," she asked? "I'd like a couple of chicken breasts, please," I said. And then it happened. Without batting an eye, the waitress winked at me, broadened her smile, and asked: "So you want to take me out tonight?" I was stunned. I heard Mark laughing loudly behind me.

Not wanting to hurt this fine young lady's feelings, I of course accepted the invitation. She told me there was a dance at the Town Hall that night, and that I could meet her there at 7 p.m. She suggested we spend the rest of the afternoon down at the Town Beach. We did.

No sooner had Mark and I shed our jackets and stripped into shorts down at the beach than I looked around and saw that we were surrounded by girls. Girls were everywhere. There seemed to be no men around between the ages of 15 and 60. "What the....," I intoned to my brother. He couldn't resist the I told you so routine.

Within minutes, other girls approached us and asked both of us to take them out that night. Later, at the dance, it was more of the same. I decided that Detroit Lakes required several days of careful study.

We stayed there nearly a week, as I was determined not to leave until I heard Mark start to whine the way I had back on that island in Maine. Ah, brotherly love has many twists of fate.

Mountain Gap Riding in Vermont

Mountain Gap Riding in Vermont
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

I recently found myself cruising Scenic Routes 100 and 131 in Vermont. Inspiration by tar is rare these days. Yet the beauty of Vermont's Green Moutains and its fantastic backroads will inspire even the most jaded traveller.

Woooooosh go the wheels as they sing the tune of the forest's stream. The trees answer with approval. They know those who appreciate their realm.

Montauk Rider at Moto Internationale, Montreal

Montauk Rider at Moto Internationale, Montreal
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.

Awaiting the Drawbridge's Lowering

Awaiting the Drawbridge's Lowering
Originally uploaded by MontaukRider.