A few weeks back, some of you might have read my overflowing review of my first ride aboard a Moto-Guzzi 850 T3. Several weeks after that fateful first ride, I managed to sell my dirt-bike, and was hell-bent on replacing it with (you guessed it) another dirt bike, specifically a KTM 640 Enduro.
But when I was last visiting my in-laws in Missoula, Neil threw a wrench into the works and mentioned that the very 850-T3 that I had such elation on, he was trying to sell. This of course, threw my motorcycle-compass into a tailspin. On one hand, the KTM was the bees-knee’s for dirt-riding around here. Plenty of power, reliable, great suspension and is available in that hunter-orange color I’m so fond of. But on the other, it was not great for two-up touring leaving only my Monster 900, who’s seat configuration can often make a concrete bench in the back of a semi with blown suspension sound appealing for anything longer than 150 miles.
By the days end, my not-often-hidden passion for Italian two-valved air-cooled motors overtook my desire for Austrian water-cooled singles, and I told Neil we’d be sending along a check when we got back to Bozeman. That Friday I drove up to pick up the T3. A new set of tires, some minor fixes and an over-all clean up. It’s not cosmetically perfect, and there are still some small issues that need to be sorted out over time, but nothing immediate. I’ve put about 1500 miles on the bike so far, and here are my impressions:
Maintenance
Nothing seems to take longer than 10-15 minutes tops on this bike. Adjusting the valves is a snap, changing the oil (no filter!) is also pretty straight forward and simple. So far the most time-consuming bit of maintenance has been removing the rear wheel.
Handling
Compared to modern bikes, the suspension is flexy and soft, but absolutely fantastic for a bike of its era. I’ve hurdled through turns at full chat without a squirm or a wiggle. The brakes are good by today’s standard, but absolutely amazing for 1976. The linked braking system is going to have to go, but the two ancient brembo calipers up front really bring the heavy bike to a stop, even with a passenger and luggage on it.
Seating and Ergonomics
The bars that came on it have a very similar bend and feel as the stock bars on my M900, so the seating position feels very comfortable. Slightly leaned forward into the wind, arms bent slightly. The stock banana-style seat is very comfortable for rider and passenger alike, though the cover has seen better days and could use to be replaced.
Power
Most of the power develops between 2,000 RPM’s and 5,000 RPM’s. While the motor will safely rev all the way to an astronomical 8,000 RPM, it really peters out around 6,000 RPM. The bike does seem geared for Montana roads however, as it effortlessly cruises at 70-80mph all day long. While the bike will rev up to 90+ MPH and gradually reach the 100 MPH mark, the vibrations and racket from the engine and bike inform the rider that if sustained, grave mechanical sadness would soon follow. From zero to eighty however, the bike is a tank, with enough torque to move a house.
Conclusion
In all, the Goose has become an absolute favorite. Riding it puts an instant grin on my face, even when weather looks poor. It lends itself to relaxing winding roads through the country, rather than the fast-paced “attack” feeling I get when on the M900 and other sportier machines. The bike also seems to draw attention wherever it is parked. The older crowd’s eyes light up with stories of their childhood spent on one, or their father who rode one around the farm, while the younger types eyes light up with a different kind of light. Personally, my eyes light up watching the ribbons of tarmac roll past the wagging speedometer and lagging tachometer to the soundtrack of the 850cc pushrod base-drum at 3,000 RPM’s.
Thursday rolls in. I’ve spent the previous nights readying the Monster for a inter-state trip with some Triumph hooligans who have graciously allowed my sacriligious Ducati to join. Grace leaves around 1:00pm for Missoula with the dog, and I tell her “I’ll be shortly behind you”. By the time 6:30pm rolls in, I’ve already completed my work for the day, had two people come to look at my KTM for sale, and delivered the bike to the buyer. I roll out of the driveway much later than expected, under blue skies.
I make it to Missoula in about six hours, preferring the longer, back-roads way to avoid boring interstate and the construction my wife advised me of in Butte. I meet Joel from Calgary at Neil and Gina’s, chat about motorcycle luggage for half and hour, scoop up some dog poop in the yard, kiss my wife and promptly pass out.
Up and at ‘em early at 6:15am on Friday morning. Grace informs me that I have beat her senseless in my sleep, and is relieved when I get out of bed. After breakfast at the Montana Club (where I find there is -no- corn beef hash, because there are not enough irish folks in Montana), we leave for Wild Bill’s in Washington around 11:00am. We hit the twisty part of bits of Route 12 through Idaho, and I pantomime the “Crank it up” sign to Neil and Joel, and propel myself through the turns at less-than-legal speeds. Fuel up in Lowell Idaho with Red Bull and snickers bars. Fuel up in Washington with some surprisingly very good Chinese food, where Joel informs us (audibly) that he is still having digestive issues with Neil’s baked beans. Hit farm-land WA, and pulled into Wild Bill’s driveway. Night was concluded with a baseball game, bar burgers, Red Stripe beer, and expensive Candadian scotch.
Saturday morning. Joel is snoring so loud, it shakes the ground. I wake up at 5:30am, and go for a walk. We discover that Wild Bill doesn’t drink coffee, and doesn’t have any in the house. “My Montana has coffee in it” Neil exclaims. We ride over to Colfax, WA and get coffee at the only place open. Taco Time. On the way back we stop at Steptoe Butte for the view, and so Tiny Tim can water the bushes. Back at the house, chains are adjusted. I realize that after 40,000 miles, my stock clutch is just about toast. Brad, Niles, and Kirk show up, and we take off for Rich’s house, just outside Spokane for brunch.
Winding through farm country, we make it to brunch. Rich puts on a very impressive spread, and afterwards we all let the food roll around our stomaches in the sun. I pat dogs on the head, and Rich’s oldest dog Jade soon finds out that I’m the guy to play fetch with. Strike out to Canada. I move up the pack and follow Rich on his Bonneville. We scream through priest river road, Rich rides like the wind. At the Canadian border, they glance at our paperwork and tell us to “Have a good time”. The whole crossing took less than five minutes for all of us.
We arrive at the Creston hotel, park the bikes, and start enjoying the Kokanee Gold beer, brewed less than five blocks from where we sit. The night continues on with pitchers, funny smelling cigarettes, cigars and roaring laughter. Kirk informs us that if Wild Bill passed away, he’d “take care” of his wife for him. I start to fade, and head to the room to sleep.
Sunday morning. A quick breakfast at a place called Grannies, and I revel in the exchange rate. 7$ for breakfast and coffee. We split up and head back to our respective homes. Crossing the border back into the US, the border agent remarks on the zip-ties holding my brake and clutch levers on. “Its so if I crash, I can use them to get home!” I proudly remark. “I try not to crash” he mentions with a slight air of disdain. The road back isn’t nearly as interesting as the road in, and I frequently stand up on the bike so that my ass can regain its natural form for a few brief moments.
Back in Missoula on Monday morning, I work most of the day, and strike out at around 3:00. Stop in Helena for gas, red-bull and cheese-it’s. A biker pulls in next to me, his bike shimmering like it just rolled off the show room floor. I glance at the Monster, covered in bugs and road grime, the back wheel splattered with chain lube and dirt. The biker saunters over to me with a bit of a swagger. “Great day huh? I put some real miles in”. “Yea, it is great weather” I remark, and add the requisite “Nice bike”. He launches into the story of his 4,000 mile machine and halfway through describing every little chrome bit he’s added on, stops and mentions “Boy, your bike sure is pretty dirty!”. He walks over and looks it over, and then stops at the odometer. “Are those original miles?” he asks with an air of incredulity. “Yep”. He saunters back to his bike and doesn’t say another word.
Back home in Bozeman three hours later. Five days on a motorcycle, and not one of them spent in the rain, snow, or heavy winds. The motorcycle gods smiled on us.
I’ve been trying to sell my KTM 520SX for several weeks now. I have ads on some forums I frequent, and I also placed one on the delinquent cesspool, Craigslist. I’ve been honest, and forthright about not only the condition of the bike, but the maintenance I’ve done, what it comes with and what it doesn’t. I’ve included high resolution photos in each advertisement, and plenty of methods for prospective buyers to get ahold of me with. In short, for someone looking for a well priced, well maintained KTM 520, its a dream ad.
So far, I’ve had at least 11 calls in which I’ve explained in detail the condition of the bike, and the terms of the sale. Usually when I mention “Its a four speed”, or “Its kick-start only” I start to hear things along the lines of “Right, well I’ll make a decision and call you back!”. Don’t lie. You won’t call me back. If you wanted the bike, you’d have set up a time to see it then. The calls I don’t mind though. So far its the people that have come by to see it that have driven me up the wall.
They stop over, walk around the bike many, many times. Poke, prod, rock, rattle just about everything on the bike. They ask half an hour worth of questions, which I answer completely. After about thirty walk arounds, another ten barrages of questions (which are almost always asked in the manner to induce that you are some kind of evil criminal about to sell them a turd on two axles), the big question comes: “Well, let me take it for a little spin and see?”. Normally, to me this is the mark of someone very serious about the bike. Test rides on motorcycles are usually reserved for trusted friends, or someone about to plunk down some big cash. Being rather hopeful, I have let the prospective buyer take the bike for a spin against my better judgement. And all three times, I’ve been let down.
They come back to tell me one of the following statements:
“Well! That sure is a heckofa bike! But I can’t really afford it right now” “It runs great, feels really nimble! But I didn’t bring any cash with me. I’ll have some in a week though?” “I’m not quite sure yet, I’ll need a little time to make my decision”
Maybe I’m a little jaded, but I’ve bought many used motorcycles in my time, and not one time did I ever check the bike out, or ask for a test ride without a big old wad of cash, or a checkbook in my back pocket. The thought being, if the bike doesn’t make any terrible noises on the test ride, and appears in the condition advertised, I’d buy it. You can’t walk into most motorcycle dealerships and demand a test ride, so why should you just expect to do it on used bikes?
The next person that asks to test ride the KTM better have the asking price stuffed in their back pocket, or their getting escorted off our property with a Mossberg. Its just not worth my time if they’re not as serious as I am.
With a big project for work nearing completion, I had been staring at my computer for way, way too long. I felt that my eyes would surely liquifiy and canoe down my face, like the crazy German scientist in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”. I had to get out. I figured a Cinnamon roll from Wheat Montana was as good an excuse as any to get out of the office. I warmed up the Monster, threw some water, cheese and crackers in the tail bag, clicked the bike into gear and off I was.
Since my last ride, I’ve made several changes to the bike and my equipment. I added a GPS Mount for my trust old Garmin V, as well as a power feed to the battery. (At some point I’ll do it right and punch it into the empty spaces on the fuse block, but this works for now). I also finally replaced the well worn Michelin Pilot Road tires, with a set of the new Michelin Pilot Road 2 tires. Finally, I also purchased a new helmet to replace my six year old Arai. I was hoping to get a new Arai as I really liked the feel of my old one, but they had discontinued that model. I ended up getting a Shoei RF-1000, which happened to be much cheaper than the Arai too.
My normal ride starts with a warm-up Down 191, through 84 into Norris. The road curves along with the Madison river through a Canyon area. Its quite a beautiful way to start a ride, as the sun shimmers off the river, and the road winds along with a 70mph speed limit. Halfway through the canyon, I saw a cloud of snow flurries up ahead. Much to my relief, and then dismay, it turned out to be a cloud of bugs. They hit my helmet, jacket and pants like rain drops, replacing water with guts and wings. Yuck.
Bug guts aside, the new helmet was a vast improvement over my tired Arai. Much quieter, and thanks to the included chin shield, not one of the winged Kamakazi pilots made it up under my chin into my helmet. Score. The new tires we’re a treat too, and ate up the canyon roads. Over time as tires square off, you often forget what real nice new tires feel like. Its like riding a completely different bike when you do finally replace them. I continued on 84, and then rode 287 up to Wheat Montana where I savored an apple raisin cinnamon roll and a large cup of coffee. While I ate, I noticed a very rainy looking cloud moving towards downtown Bozeman. One of the advantages of living in Big Sky Country, is you can see the weather before its upon you. I swiftly decided to extend my ride rather than get wet riding back home, and headed off to Townsend.
I rode through Helena state forest, through some more curves which stripped the mold release compound off the far reaches of the tires, and then headed south down 89 to Livingston. There is a rather straight and barren section of Rt 89 that stretches on for miles and miles. I pulled over and sat in the fields enjoying the absolute silence of the land, and some cheese and crackers. Its one of my favorite tranquil spots. Absolutely nothing, and nobody. You could have a picnic on the road itself and not have to worry about a car coming to spoil it. Then again, try not to break down, because you may end up sleeping next to your bike.
By this time, the sun had long since passed the apex of the day, and was headed down behind the Tobacco Root range, and I decided it was time to head home. The last time I played chicken with the sunset, I ended up dodging the fence-jumping breed of Montana Dusk Deer, hellbent on putting themselves in front of you at fifty miles per hour. It was not an experience I wanted an encore of.
Southbound, I passed through Livingston on my way back to Bozeman with the intent of gassing up and enjoying a meal at home. But then I passed through a sign that said “Neptunes Brewery, Beer, Seafood, Thai”. What an odd combination of things. Curiosity got the better of me, and I had to pull in for a look.
Neptune’s Brewery reminds me of the sort of place my father was looking to open up years ago. The brewing facility takes up 3/4 of the square footage, and is viewable through the large fish tank behind the bar. The kitchen is a small place adjunct to the bar and turns out some really, really good Red Curry. And the beers we’re like every Montana beer I’ve had so far. Excellent. With equally curious names like “Walk The Plank Stout”, and “Poison Toad Bock”, you can’t help but let your imagination drift while tasting them. Halfway through, a guy sat down next to me, that turned out to be the brewer himself! We had a long conversation about trips, travels, motorcycles and beer. The bright orange color of sunset started reflecting off the fish tank behind the bar, and I remembered that I still wanted to get home before dark. What a great little place though. If your ever in need of a good beer, a great thai dinner, and are anywhere near Livingston, MT. Make a beeline for Neptune’s. Its not a place to pass by.
Sum total of the day? The GPS wiring worked great, and the location is perfect for where I sit on the bike. The new tires revived the bike. The helmet made things much quieter and didn’t bore into my forehead like the worn padding on the Arai has. The road we’re clear and clean, the beers cold and fresh, the food hot and spicy, and I once again avoided the inclimate weather forcasted for the day. Smiles all around.
This weekend Grace and I drove up to Missoula to visit with the in-laws and kick around for a weekend. Neil and Gina (they refuse to let me call them anything with a “Mr” or “Mrs” in front of it), have a nice full basement apartment that we stay in, and dogs are welcome. (There is a funny story about Lola chasing around a chicken and getting a mouthful of feathers, but thats for another time). I don’t have any pictures, as I thoughtfully left my camera battery back in Bozeman, so words will have to do. (The image above is a picture off the web, of the bike I rode. Only it was white, and didn’t have bags on it).
Sunday rolled in, with some seriously nasty looking clouds in the big-sky. The weather over the past weeks has been absolute crap. Rain or snow, take your pick. So any day without rain falling, is a day to be taken advantage of. Despite the really black clouds on the horizon, the weather was warm and sunny. The kind of weather that makes you think “Well, if I get out for just a little bit, I might make it before the rain comes”. Neil was doing some yardwork, and I mentioned my plans of chancing the weather and getting out for a ride. Apparently the thought was on his mind too, as he quickly ditched his weekend yard work, and started wheeling motorcycles out of the garage, to get to his Triumph Bonneville.
As I was checking bits on the Monster in prep for the ride, he remarked “Hey, if you want to ride something else, take your pick”. Now for most, this would be a tough decision for any motorcyclist. Neil & Gina’s world is STUFFED with motorcycles of every make, displacement and engine orientation. BMW’s, Harley Davidsons, Triumphs, Velocettes, Nortons, and Moto-Guzzis. Its equivocally like walking into the biggest motorcycle dealership you’ve ever seen, and then being told “Take any one (but just one) for a 3 hour test ride”. You really feel like your in a donut shop, trying to debate the merits of each. But not for me, not this time. “Would you mind if I took the T3?”, I asked, almost immediately.
The 850-T3 Moto-Guzzi is a white, sleek 850 cc “standard bike”, made in the late seventies. It reminds me a bit of the Norton’s and Triumphs of yesteryear, but with the bristling 850cc V-twin cylinder heads sticking out in front of your legs, upgraded brakes and suspension. It was made in a time before self-appointed environmentalists demanded that motorcycles run with super-quiet pipes, and heavily restricted emissions systems, so the (stock) pipes are loud enough that you can actually hear the motorcycle running at 80mph. Sitting on the bike, it feels narrow and sleek, save for the big motor right in front of you. Thumb the starter, and the bike tilts slightly to the left; “Ka-chaf, ka-chaf, ka-brup, bra-brup, bra-brup”. A nice steady, low idle. Just sitting on the bike, you know its alive. You don’t have to check your idiot lights or tug the throttle to confirm it. It has a feel all its own, slightly pulsing the whole bike to the right (due to the engine orientation). While I was grinning like a fool atop the T3, listening to the motor burble underneath me, Neil warmed up the Bonneville and geared up. We left the driveway and made tracks through downtown twards the old interstates to Seeley lake.
On the road, I got to really feel the different ranges that the Guzzi works in. If your just idling along the flats, kick it into high gear and let it rumble along at 2,000 RPM’s in a nice grumble that won’t vibrate you to bits. But jump on a straight bit, or the interstate and click it down a few gears, and it simply roars to life. The Vega-Borelli speedometer danced and waved at me like a naughty finger telling me to slow down, while nextdoor the firm and fixed tachometer indicated that I still had quite a lot of room left to go. We whipped passed a winding road sign, and Neil flicked the Bonneville over effortlessly into the set of S-bends. Despite the weight of the bike sitting at a standstill or low-speed, I was simply amazed at how easily the 30 year old heeled into the corners (a bit like my Monster 900 would). It was a constant battle to remind myself that I was on 10 year old tires, and tired suspension (translation, don’t push it). Even so, I had little problem keeping up with the newer Bonneville that zipped through the corners with ease. Around the bends, a little bit of throttle and the Guzzi would chuff and pull through the turns like a tractor, speedometer waving all the way.
Diving into a turn a little to fast, I grabbed the front brake, and felt a small moment of panic. Unlike just about every other bike that separates the front braking system from the rear, the Guzzi uses a linked braking system. Grab a handful of front, and you’ll get on disc and a bit of rear. Grab a footfull of rear brake, and you’ll get the other disc on the front, and a bit of rear. Coming from a roadracing background where the rear brake is only used for trailbraking into corners, using it before a turn felt somewhat odd. But when both we’re used, the old steel-framed monster slowed down right quick.
We stopped up at Lake Seeley for some Chicken Gizzards and Strips, fresh made at the Chicken Coop. Midway through my meal, Neil pointed to the ominious black cloud and indicated that he didn’t mean to rush me, but we really should get moving if we wanted to stay dry. I stuffed the last of my delicious fried chicken down my gullet, and suited up to get moving.
Our ride back was nothing but a speed run to beat the weather, and clear off the carbon deposits of the bikes down the same roads, and scenery (now draped with the shadows of rain clouds). At about 85-90 mph, the Guzzi doesn’t have much futher to go. Buzzing along at around 5500 RPM’s, there isn’t a terrible amount of different between half throttle and full. It would have gone faster I’m sure, but I felt guilty pushing a thirty-year-old horse, for fear that something would simply give and end with grave mechanical sadness. We arrived back into town, where it was clear that we had beaten the rain. Neil asked if I was ready to head back home just yet. “I don’t care, I could ride this bike all day long.” We pulled a u-turn and took a short ride over to one of Neil’s favorite pub’s in town and both got a pint of Highlander dark beer.
A beautiful day, a great ride, on a even better old bike, through amazing countryside, finished with a delicious dark beer. I love what I do. But if ever I came across an ad:
Wanted:
Motor-head to ride old motorcycles around under ominous clouds, and sample beers.
Inquire Within.
I’d give my notice tomorrow.
We got back home, in time to take off our gear, and then run outside in the downpour and try to wheel the bikes back into the garage. As I stood cold, soaking wet under the eves of the garage with the rain pouring down and all the bikes inside, I smirked a bit. Just in time. Everything, just in time.
The sun had come out, and we cracked open the windows and doors to let the sixty-degree air waft through the house and replace the stale winter air that had been circulating since the last snow. Spring in Montana is an odd thing. It doesn’t rain much, it just snows in heaps for days at a time, and then melts quickly. The ground always seems to be starving for water, so it soaks it up very quickly.
“We should do something today, its so nice out!” my wife Grace mentions. Of course, I had already been thinking about wheeling the Monster out of the garage from the moment I felt the warm air that morning. Grace was happy to go for an extended ride, providing that there was food first. We wheeled downtown to the aptly named Garage restaurant where they serve local beers and buffalo burgers, right off main street outside. Sun on our face, and delicious buffalo in our bellies, we gassed up and geared up again, and headed down the US 191 towards Yellowstone.
The speed limit through most of Montana is set at 70mph. Up until recently it was “Safe and Prudent”, but was quickly replaced when Federal funding was set to be cut unless some limit was put in place. Two-up through the highway, the monster purred almost perfectly at 70-75mph along the winding road. I came over a rise, and found a trooper parked at a turnout. I jabbed the front brake, and brought us from 70 to 50 in a matter of nanoseconds. As we idled past, I checked my mirror for signs of the cruiser pulling out after us. It seemed that despite the smoke pouring off the front tire, and the rear wheel hopping as I came over the rise, this friendly rozzer was not going to pull us over.
We rode through, and the scenery got even better, and better. We pointed out huge eagles and hawks soaring over us, and rock outcroppings that made me feel like I was riding a motorcycle through a Clint Eastwood movie I might have seen as a child. The road got even more windy; a perfect smooth surface that the Monster heeled over onto effortlessly. In between high-speed s-bends are perfect sections of straight road where you can look around you and oogle the magnificent geological formations that surround you. The traffic is so thin, we rode for miles and miles without seeing another car. Eventually we came up upon a big black SUV, and before I could signal or get to a passing zone, the SUV pulled right over for us, and let us by. “Wow!” I thought to myself, “What a courteous driver!”. Back east, its almost unheard of to have someone pull over for you, or pull into a turnout.
I glanced in my rearview mirror quickly before zipping around the SUV, and found the front profile of a Montana State Police crusier, lights drawing red and blue dots on my mirror. “Huh! Where did he come from!”. I signaled and pulled over as quick as I could, and shut off the bike. “So, whats going on?” the officer asked us, with his arms crossed. “Just out for a Saturday ride officer. You know, enjoying the beautiful weather”. It was then that he informed us that he’d been following us for miles and miles, and several other State Troopers we’re rallying to our location to help with “The Pursuit”. That rozzer we passed almost 20 minutes ago? Oh boy, we’re in for it now. Clearly, this is the downside to wearing ear-plugs while riding.
Much to my surprise, he told us that he didn’t feel we we’re trying to evade him (I’m guessing us pointing out wildlife and scenery tipped him off that we in fact, were not running to Utah with a Kilo of cocaine in our bags). I nodded feverishly in agreement, and mentioned that with so few vehicles on the road, I have become accustomed to not checking my rearview as often as I should. He did mention though, that he initially got us at 70 mph, but while following us, we peaked at around 78. Crap. One 85$ ticket, and a signature later, and we we’re back on our way with little fuss.
We continued on through the Montana tip of Yellowstone, just a ribbon of tarmac through the wild of the woods. No gas stations, bustling towns. Small (and large) tracks through snow, with some sweeping bends thrown in to remind you that you are in fact on a motorcycle, and there is more to do than just watch the scenery rush by, slack-jawed. We turned right and continued up twards Ennis, passing by Hebgen Lake. Hebgen Lake sits at the base of several mountains, and the road is cut into the hillside, and swoops down and around the coast. Past Hebgen lake, we found the plains between the Sheep Mountians and Taylor Peaks. Flat, and straight without much deviation. Nothing but plains, deer, and some antelopes sprinkled in for a good mix.
While I could feel Grace behind me shivering as the sun started to dip lower, I was nervously watching the miles tick by on the trip meter. I had never gone much further than 115 miles between fill-ups on the Monster, and with a broken fuel sending unit (rendering the nice low fuel light on my dash useless) I was nervous. Mile 145 clicked by and I wasn’t even sure if we’d find a gas station in Ennis. We ambled through the small town, and at the end, into a gas station twice as large as anything in the town. (Apparently when your the only Exxon station in town, you can make such lavish stations). We sat on the upside-down U in front of the pump, huddled together in a small beam of fading sunlight to warm up with some questionable hot-chocolate and mocha coffee from a machine. One hundred and fifty-nine miles, up and down through the mountains left Grace freezing cold through her Kilimanjaro jacket, and left my shoulders sore from the straight, long road.
Its amazing what a little powdered whipped drink and a stop can do for your spirits. The last leg of the ride was easily the most enjoyable yet. We rode through Norris, and then down beside the Madison river in one of those most amazingly carved canyons I had seen yet. I was yelling “Woohoooooo” and all sorts of other excited phrases passing through, which luckily Grace couldn’t hear over the ear-plugs. The last miles homeward we’re some of the best. We pulled in just as dusk arrived, cold and tired, but thoroughly elated with the ride.
85$ for the ticket, 10$ for gas, and 3$ for hot drinks out of a slightly wonky machine. For under a hundred bucks, you can’t even grab movie and a nice dinner much these days. Worth every penny.
At 6:45am on Wednesday, April 1st, I finished hooking up the 6×12 U-Haul trailer to my overladen Truckie-Sama, took a deep breath and eased out of the driveway. Connecticut has been home to me for all of my twenty-six years. Just about everyone and everything that has ever been close to my heart, is from this side of the Mississippi.
In the days leading up to the move, things couldn’t have gone better. My parents worked in double shifts helping me for all they could. My mom endlessly packing things into boxes with labels while I was at work on a hectic schedule, and my father installing a giant new bay-window into the house. My friend Zsolt (and future tenant) spent much of his time stopping by to help whenever he could. I couldn’t have dreamed of so much support from the people I love, to help me move far, far away. Eternally grateful seems too cliche a term, but its the only one that comes to mind.
The drive out was mostly a strange blur of state signs, changing scenery and mild traffic. While I was driving, Lola would pass out in grandiose fashion, sprawling along the back bench, lifting her head only when we’d slow down for a toll booth. When I got too weary to continue driving, I’d pull into a rest area, lay my seat back and crawl into a sleeping bag. Its nice to know that despite the three years I spent in the posh comfort of my home, I can still sleep like a log in my truck. While I was passed out, Lola took over as the alert dog, and would make all sorts of a racket if anyone came close to the truck or trailer.
Rather than bore you with every intricate detail of the trip, I’ll surmise the highlights:
Illinois - Quite possibly the most overrated state on the trip. Driving through Chicago was better than driving through New York, but for the cost of the tolls, my fucking hell was it not. I spent over 35$ on tolls in that state, to drive on a crap road, through crap towns, and generally rude drivers.
Minnesota - Definitely the state with the absolute worst roads. For seventy miles I drove on a section of I-90 that was so mal-aligned that it sent the truck and trailer into a furious up and down undulation. So bad that I couldn’t hold my coffee without it spilling all over the place. I actually had to pull over and drink it all down, otherwise I’d end up wearing it. I tried going faster and slower, but it made no difference.
South Dakota - The quickest route would have taken me through North Dakota, but given the flooding issues they had been having, I didn’t feel much like testing the sea-worthyness of Japanese steel and 4,000 pounds of U-haul. It was pretty flat. The badlands we’re a bit of a trip to drive through. I made a note to schedule a road-tour through them on the bike at some point.
Wyoming - Here is where it started to snow, and I started to see my first signs mentioning “Highway closed, turn back to
Montana - Somehow the landscape knows to change at borders. I came over a hill, passed the sign, and the rolling hills turned into snow-capped mountains and windy roads. I really had to start being careful about gas, as there are unmarked stretches of 100+ miles without any service stations.
All told, I left Wednesday at 6:45am, and was 70 miles outside Bozeman at 10:00pm on Friday night. I was too tired to drive that remaining 70 miles, so I crashed at a rest area and did the last hour in the morning. I drove 2300 miles, spent 442$ on petrol, averaging 8 miles per gallon at 60 miles per hour. I spent 45$ on provisions (food, coffee) and still managed an even 7-8 hours of sleep per night. I’m here now, home under the big sky, chasing the mountian shadows.
I’ve often felt in a motorcycle, that I’m out of touch with the rest of traffic. Yes yes, I know most of them are sitting in cars, in normal clothes, with seat belts and a stereo softly playing Kenny-G. But they have big, loud horns that go *BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP* loud enough to make you jump, while my little motorcycle horn sounds more like a sickly cat when I press it.
So when idiot drivers do idiot things, I frustratingly honk my horn and wave my hands with choice fingers to a blank audience. Homie-G funk blaring biggie-smalls at deafening levels just doesn’t hear me.
Until now. Meet the megaphone helmet.
While the wearer of said helmet may not find it particularly aerodynamic or comfortable at highway cruising speeds, the delight of pointing it in the direction of less than aware drivers and waking them up easily makes up for the discomfort.
Surprise surprise, I’m in Montana again! Thanks to my wonderful parents for buying us a set of plane tickets, and watching my ‘little’ girl Lola for the whole month and a half, as well as checking up on the house. They’ve been ever so supportive, even though this move means I’ll be an eight hour plane ride away from them.
Grace and I have been very busy this trip however, with everything there is to be done before I make the drive out. Licenses have been changed, vehicles registered and we’ve spent a good amount of time hunting for a place that will take our small zoo of three cats, a dog, and house a scaled down version of my workshop. After much searching, we found a nice place for a good price that will suit our needs. A decent sized garage with outlets and lights for the motorcycles, a nice yard out back to walk the dog in, and a cozy split-level setup. In the midst of signing agreements, a hectic workload for both of us, we took last weekend to pull back, and make the drive up to Missoula to see parents and friends. We rolled into Neil and Gina’s around 7:00pm to a lovely dinner of “Gina-whatever-with-chicken-over-rice”, and watched a movie about Kalifornian’s with too much money, and a sixties complex, otherwise known as “Brittown“. Lots of cool bikes, but both Neil and I we’re not too keen on the main character, “Meatball”. Still, worth watching at least once if your into 60’s and 70’s era motorcycles.
Saturday morning we went out to breakfast with Grace’s Dad. Craig is also an avid motorcyclist, and though it was the first time I met him, it wasn’t more than two minutes before we started talking about motorcycles, trips and tours. We talked briefly about some dual sporting and his KLR 650, which unknowingly planted a little seed in my head, about a dual sport tour of the Northeast. Craig and I share many similar views about motorcycling, particularly riding styles and the joy of being alone on a ride through the country. It was pretty cosmic to listen to him talk about how he experiences a ride. Felt a bit like talking to a better educated version of myself.
After breakfast and back at the homestead, Neil and I pared off from the ladies and on tour around Missoula’s bike builders and shops. He must have known that I was feeling a bit off being so far way from my motorcycles for so long, so he had almost a whole day of motorcycle-ish things for us to do. We toured “Ghetto’s” new shop, complete with plenty of parts storage space and overlooking offices, and stopped by Magoo’s shop to kick tires and look at old bikes. Magoo has a really nice setup. White walls and a clean shop with several projects on the docket. The piece de resistance however, was the trip to the Harley Davidson/Ducati dealership. Whoo!
I hadn’t seen the new rotax-powered Buell 1125R in person yet, and I was -very- impressed. All the fancy trimmings of a powerful production line sportbike, but with some nice sport-touring options that would make it a nice bike to zip across the country on. I really oogled the 2008 Harley-Davidson 1200 Nightster hard too. Of all the bikes I’ve seen Harley Davidson put out, this one really catches my eye. Nice high up pegs for cornering, a really classic look that I love, and a simplistic design. Prices on them are not too bad either.
We finally sauntered over to the Ducati models. I have to say, the new Monsters really don’t do it for me. Maybe I’m just getting old, or maybe I’m still too head-over-heels in love with my M900, but the new bikes seem to defeat what the whole “Monster” line was all about, and what has attracted me to them. As much as I love working with computers on a daily basis, I don’t quite trust them enough to be the controlling force of my motorcycle. Until I gain that trust, I’ll keep my pickup-ignition, carb’ed motorcycle that can be repaired with some wire, electrical tape, and a screwdriver in the event of an emergency.
Confangled new technology aside, the Sportclassic’s (particularly the Sport 1000) are on my list of bikes to own before kicking the bucket. The GT1000 would make a nice touring bike with a set of bags and a tank item. But being younger and more into the “sport” touring side of things, I think I could retrofit a Sport 1000 into something tour-able, while keeping plenty of ground clearance to really heel over on the twisty bits.
We sauntered back to the garage where we unraveled a Moto-Guzzi mystery. Seems one of Neil’s Guzzi’s was having some clutch troubles during the engage and disengage process, grumblings and odd feelings of the sort. Through a soundtrack of *fwwoooooop* from impact wrenches, clanking tools, and a few “What the !*@#?” ’s, we managed to tear the entire rear end apart. With the bike hanging from rafters, minus a wheel, swingarm, carborator, centerstand and most of a transmission, we finally realized that a busted thrust/throwout bearing and shaft was causing the issue, and the clutch itself was completely fine. (All of course, which could have been fixed with only the removal of the rear wheel).
Despite tearing apart half of a motorcycle without truly needing to for the day, it was really nice to work on one again with someone. The last time I -really- pulled anything apart with anyone was when my friend Zsolt rebuilt his KTM. Having not touched a motorcycle for more than a month, it was nice to have grease under my nails again, and moto on the brain.
I can’t wait until I’m wheeling a motorcycle out of the garage on a cool morning, and setting off to ride in the chase the mountian shadows.
December 30th, 2008. Dressed in a white shirt, black dress pants and fuzzy warm socks, I’m trying to weave flowers into Grace’s hair with a confused look on my face. “Doesn’t this hurt? I think I’m hurting you”. “Sssh. They won’t stay in unless it hurts, your doing fine.”. There, thats it, last one. She turns her head to both sides inspecting the work, and turn turns to me. “So how do I look?”. I find myself beaming with a smile, and without appropriate words. I manage to blurt out the cliche; ‘beautiful’. She flashes me a smile and gives me a kiss.
Grace and I had an absolutely amazing wedding. I can best describe it as the most beautiful wedding I never thought I would have. From pushing the car our of the snow banks to get to the justice of peace on time, looking into my wife’s eyes as we said our vows, freezing to each other on top of Pete’s Hill while taking photos, every moment was unique in our own particular way. A few hours to relax with each other, before an cozy dinner with friends at MacKenzie river, concluded with chocolate cake and congratulating smiles from all. In the moments between, I stole glances at Grace, just watching her. Her glow, her smile, her laugh, and the way she floated through the day with me. Our path through life laid out before us, sprawling like the expanse of the land. I remember early on, she gave me a Jane Austen quote, in the form of a question:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
If I was asked to respond now, I’d say that a man may find fortunes won and lost, but the real fortune of any man lies with his wife. To find the person that brings you alive, stands by your side, opens new doors with such luminosity and have the luck to marry that person… What greater fortune could any one person on this earth find? For all the miles atop howling motorcycles in strange lands, or quiet celebrations for the supposed big moments in life, none quite rocked my world like the day I married my wife.
The new year came at midnight the next day. Bundled up in warm clothes we stood on top of Pete’s Hill once again, our bellies full of warm hot chocolate, hands clasped laughing ‘posthole-waltzing’ in the snow while Frank Sinatra serenaded us from an over-modulated cell-phone speaker with “New York, New York”. We held each other under the big sky, fireworks shooting off at odd hours all over town, sledders making bonzai runs down the hill with sparklers in one hand and champagne in the other. I flew back to CT the next day at 2:00pm. For all I could rationalize it, I might just as well had left the face of the earth.
In the fleeting moments between a heavy schedule at work, and sorting the house in CT for possible rental or sale, I work tirelessly in the garage to prep the extra motorcycles for sale.. Insurance policies are combined, vehicles are registered in Montana, and I’m hemorrhaging superfluous material possessions. Come the first week of April, Grace will be here loading up the U-Haul trailer with me, making the long drive from CT to MT.
2009. The year of change. Are you ready? Hang on.