Loop 2 was different than the one that preceded it. In short, it really had to be, otherwise this whole MotoTouring thing was going to turn out to be a lot more like work than fun, and that just couldn’t last. You see, the first few days of Loop 1 were a precarious mix of great riding and personal stress test. I had to prove to myself I still had the stones to go out and lay down miles, still had the physical prowess to do what used to be a piece of cake, but now seemed like it might be a chapter closed in the sleazy supermarket paperback that is my life. I needed to win this one, and win big, so I stacked the odds in my favor by picking a couple of the premier sport touring destinations in the country. Still, it took a few days to shake the uncharacteristic dirty black cloud that had been following me around for the last year and a half. It wasn’t until the last three days of that first trip, and especially the last 685-mile blast home from the Montana/Canada border that I felt like I had shaken off what ailed me and reclaimed the ability to refer to myself again as a rider.

So, you might ask, what’s the big deal with being able to legitimately call yourself a rider, as and as such, aspire to go out on the road and ride fast and well, and cover big distances? Why attach such worth to what might otherwise be considered merely a hobby, right up there with stamp collecting or container gardening? The answer probably lies in an infamous but up until now totally unrelated interview I gave to the Richmond Times Dispatch (Richmond, Virginia’s metro newspaper) some twenty-five ago in a story exploring winter sailboat racing (more commonly known as frostbite racing) on the southern Chesapeake Bay. To her credit, the reporter doing the legwork for the story actually sailed a frostbite race with us aboard Southerly, my buddy Fred’s fine racing yacht and walk-in beer cooler. After the race she asked me point blank why we did what we did. Why she asked, did we feel compelled to go out on that frigid bay and yell and scream while banging hulls and downing copious amounts of cheap rum in wet, miserable weather? After all, on days like these, most people were tucked inside their comfortable homes staying warm, safe and dry.

“Days like these?” I muttered, as I found myself stumbling to string a few words together that might resemble a reasonable, printable response. Stumped and short on words (a rare occurrence to be sure) I was having real trouble grasping the idea that cowering inside, affixed to a Barcolounger on a gray November Sunday could somehow be preferable to being afforded the opportunity to go out and slam myself against the elements aboard a sailboat. In my mind sailboat racing was exactly the kind of thing that days like these were made for.

With that thought firmly lodged in my mind I uttered the two sentences that once published in the following week’s Sunday Edition had me apologizing and claiming journalistic malpractice for several weeks to come. I said: “The world is full of guys who go to work, mow the lawn, and watch football on Sundays. They’re dead, and they don’t even know it.”

I guess I could have just said: “Screw comfort.” It would have gotten my point across nearly as well and probably saved me several dozen angry phone calls, mostly from irate Washington Redskins fans. Then again, why use a flyswatter when an AK-47 gets the job done too, albeit with a little more damage to the crown molding.

"Screw comfort". I would hope that most of my friends would say something similar when posed with a question like that. Chances are they’d be a little more polite and a lot more eloquent in how they described their need to be out there taking some form of live fire, not home safe on the sofa. While the way they choose to do that may vary wildly, one constant seems always in place, and that is any hugely entertaining endeavor is almost always a little uncomfortable due to environmental or psychological factors (or both), and usually involves some degree of personal peril. The best days seem fully steeped in both, especially the ones that make for great stories for years to come. In other words, while one not need pursue something akin to a personal death wish, worthy memories are seldom born from a rousing trip to Bed, Bath and Beyond on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

It should be noted that before I took off on that first big ride of the season it had been well over a year since I’d had a day worth remembering. More accurately, the entire year previous was worthy of forgetting, even completely burying. The ride to Montana and back was likely the one thing that kept me from shooting myself in the head with my flyswatter.

If Loop 1 was a test, Loop 2 was the reward for a passing score. It was to be shorter and more familiar, and involved running down the Oregon and California coasts for a few days, then turning inland and doing a little backroad bombing once I tired of looking at the Pacific Ocean. I’d run both coasts before almost in their entirety a few years earlier so this part of the trip would be hardly be new to me. Still, heading back there seemed like a great idea, as the northwest coastline is just damn hard to beat for it’s scenic value, both geological and human.

I was stoked for this one. I actually had the bike packed and prepped the night before I was due to leave, and consequently got a reasonably early start. I bit the Interstate bullet and took I-84 to Portland, where I picked up I-5 south and proceeded to ride smack into a full on “hey dummy, it is the Pacific Northwest” downpour. I tucked in behind the V-Strom’s minimal windscreen and rode until the visibility went to about 5 feet and it became obvious I was going to die after being mashed by at least eighteen successive wheels in a row if I didn’t get off the damn freeway real soon. Fortunately a rest stop appeared on my right and I dove in and parked the bike under the eaves of the restrooms and prepared to wait out the rain. After a few minutes I was recruited to help a hipster-type on a heavily customized Harley Fat Boy tighten his battery bolts so he might be spared the ride of shame in the front seat of the AAA flatbed, his $35,000.00 driveway jewelry strapped down in the back like some prematurely expired Taurus. Apparently he blew his entire riding budget on leather tassels, a polished billet cell phone holder, and mirrors shaped like flaming skulls and couldn’t afford a proper tool kit.

With the rain clearing and my deposit in the Good Karma Bank cleared, I headed south for Corvallis, OR, home to The Oregon State Beavers and the jumping off point for OR RT34. I’d seen 34 on a map a few days earlier and it looked like a world-class moto romp across the Oregon Coast Range and into the little fishing village of Waldport. Even wet it didn’t disappoint, and was probably the best chunk of asphalt I rode entire trip, maybe the entire summer. I’m going back one of these days to ride it again in the dry. It’s that good.

Once on the coast and mostly free of the rain, I turned left and headed south. I stopped in Florence, OR, intent on grabbing an early dinner and then knocking out another 100 miles or so before the end of the day, but a resurgence of rain had me grabbing a room and heading for Florence’s Old Town for food and drink. Just an FYI, Florence is a terrific little town. The hotel was clean and cheap, the chowder and fish & chips at The Firehouse were top notch, the beer flowing from the taps around Old Town was locally brewed and ice cold, and the locals were friendly - all good things in an unscheduled overnight stop.

The next morning had me downing a couple of cups of the hot brown stuff and pointing the DL directly at the great sand playground of ATV riding Dune Goons from all over the Northwest more commonly known as Winchester Bay. I’d heard the ORV Park at Winchester Bay was a monster, and like so many other things I ran into this summer, the scale of the actual destination was overwhelming. The dunes are huge, sit right against the ocean beaches, and the available riding area is many square miles and loaded with trails as well as huge sand jumps. In this age of green politics, the simple idea that this vast tract of real estate is available to any dirt bike, ATV, or dune buggy pilot willing to pony up the $10.50 semi-annual pass fee is really heartening. As with RT34, I’m planning a return trip to the big dunes of Winchester Bay with my trusty Honda ATC200X sand blaster in tow. To live a few hours from this place and not spill a little DNA on the dunes would be criminal, and to quote Richard Nixon, “I am not a crook”.

Not these days, anyway.

After a couple hours of riding around Winchester and surveying the majority of the ORV area, I wiped the drool from my helmet liner and again headed south, through the big coastal scenery of Coos Bay, Port Orford, and Pistol River, OR. I finally stopped for the night at a state park in Brookings OR that was perched directly on a cliff overlooking the ocean. I figured my 600 square foot campsite would be worth roughly half a million bucks in today’s real estate market, more if the neighbors hadn’t had their living room cranked out and infringing on the view from site C-17’s picnic table.

Show me a more stunningly spectacular sunset for $17.00 a night and I’ll kiss your ass in the middle of whatever passes for Main Street in your home locale and give you an hour to draw a crowd.

Incidentally, way back in 1981 one Steve Peck, owner and operator of Hero’s Cycle Center in Fredonia, NY bet me I be married before I hit my thirtieth birthday and laid out the same terms. He lost that wager almost twenty years ago and Steve, if you’re still lurking out there, I’m waiting to collect on that one.

When morning came I was back on 101 and heading into my former home state of the California Republic. I wasn’t a mile past the border when I ran into a massive traffic jam, apparently caused by several guys in orange vests leaning on shovels and looking bored. The big flashing signs mounted in the beds of their pickups said something about “road work”, but I’m pretty sure it was a spelling error of sorts, albeit a common one in that socialist paradise.

California. Ah yes… California. How I don’t miss the place.

I will give the Golden State credit for one thing – they really got it right when they decided the coast was worth protecting and essentially banned residential waterfront development. The resulting lack of garish coastal mansions that would otherwise block the view from 101 is refreshing, and the huge number of state parks and public access areas make it possible to actually stop and enjoy the mind-blowing ocean vistas that crop up every few miles. This may be the only time I ever come out in favor of overbearing government regulation, but spend a little time in an east coast “resort town” like Virginia Beach, VA or Ocean City, MD and you’ll get my drift pretty quickly – that drift being that sometimes preservation trumps development and it’s accompanying unchecked greed and penchant for really, really bad architecture.

That said, I am nothing if not a capitalist, and it’s perfectly OK with me if our nation’s real estate developers want to sprinkle a few more Cheesecake Factory Outlet Stores around the DC Beltway or jam just one more Holiday Inn Express between the Del Boca Vista timeshare tower and Jimmy’s Pancake Shack on South Miami Beach’s Atlantic Avenue. Hell, pave over the entirety of Cleveland and build mother of all Bass Pro Shops for all I care. Just leave Big Sur and the Cape Hatteras National Seashore the hell alone.

Sorry, but as usual, I digress.

When I finally cleared the construction zone I continued my run down the coast through the redwoods and into Klamath, CA, where things just get weirder the closer you look. I eventually ran south as far as Eureka, CA, but since 101 turns inland and gets dull just south of that point, I headed back up 101 and hung a right at Crescent City on RT199, more commonly known as The Redwood Highway. It runs north through Jed Smith Redwoods State Park and makes for an interesting ride for about 20 miles or so, then you run out of giant trees to be amazed by and find yourself slogging along a very ordinary four lane highway all the way to Grant’s Pass, OR.

I did make a small detour along the way to Grant’s Pass, connecting to the now infamous Bear Camp road, the previously unknown stretch of Oregon gravel and dirt made famous by the wintertime stranding and resulting death of one James Kim, the hapless motorist who trusted his GPS more than his own survival instincts and got his Volvo wagon buried in the snow trying to cross the Coast Range. The national news media had a field day with that story and spun Kim as some kind of a hero for what appeared to me to be a serious of really bad decisions: