I was standing in the tool aisle of my local Home Depot, happily locked in a Texas Stare Down with the Ryobi One 18V cordless tool display, when a familiar voice just off to my left said ”You look like you’re really in deep thought over there”.

With eyes still firmly planted on the orange and blue impact driver, I answered “I’m leaving for another ride tomorrow and I’m still trying to decide on what the route might look like.”

While most people would have considered that response somewhat disconnected at best, the voice just responded with a simple “Oh”. You see, that voice belonged to my buddy Chris, who in addition to sharing a name also shares a mutual appreciation for the Suzuki DL650 V-Strom. Like me, he also spends a lot of time riding one and trying to connect various dots buried deep in the Washington State wilderness, mostly by riding his DL650 along really skinny lines drawn on National Forrest Service maps that may or may not depict actual roads. Like him, I’ve been down a bunch of those same tracks. Before you go you stare at the map for a few moments, cross your fingers, hope you have twice the amount of fuel the map would suggest you need for the distance involved, and hope the squiggly dotted line in front of you is or was at one time actually a fire road or Jeep trail. While you’re at it, you also better put in a request to the road gods for a reasonably level spot to turn around a 450lb “trail bike” when the line turns out to be a totally impassable rock garden or washed out draw. Most of the time you get two out of three, which is usually good enough to make for a great Sunday, unless of course you run out of gas, which almost always isn’t.

After 30 seconds or so passed, Chris spoke first, and simply said “Have you been to Rainier National Park? It’s not that far from here, and there’s a road that runs through it that’s makes for pretty good riding. You should check it out”.

I broke gaze with the impact driver long enough to say, “OK, I will”. Chris nodded and headed off to complete whatever mission he was on and I was left with the realization that if I’ve learned anything at all in a half-century of dorking around this planet, it’s the importance of listening to those who actually do what you do, while tuning out those self-styled experts who spend most of their time listening to themselves talk. When it comes to the fine art of motorcycle touring, I never listen to anyone whose bike sports more polished billet aluminum and chrome-plated trinkets than mine has road grime and dirt, even on those occasions immediately following a dance with the pressure washer and a bottle of Simple Green.

“Rainier National Park” had a nice ring to it, and as I carried the latest addition to my cordless power tool collection to the self-checkout counter, I made a mental note to stop at Holstein’s Coffee on the way back to the ranch, drag out the WA/OR road map I seem to always have stuffed in the map pocket of my tank bag, and get a handle on getting there from here.

About 10 hours later, morning broke and I was out of the driveway like a circus freak shot out of phony cannon, except with a better helmet and less stars and stripes emblazoned spandex clinging to my middle-aged body. That actually might be one of my better analogies, as there is no ignoring the fact that dusty adventure riders and circus freaks share a certain kinship. After all, be both wear funny clothes, suffer poorly concealed stares from the sideline-residing masses, and frighten most children and small dogs. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have it any other way, though I kind of wish Belstaff made a bright red cape that zipped into the collar of my ProToura jacket. Now, that would be cool. Once out of the proverbial cannon and out on the road I headed for the coast, my trajectory taking me up the southern shore of the Columbia River on US30, which runs the entire length of the big ditch all the way to it’s end at Astoria, OR. Astoria is a cool town that seems to be in transition, kind of halfway through the changeover from traditional Northwest fishing and shipping port to modern tourist trap. This kind of tax base purgatory actually seems to work for Astoria, in that it’s still rough enough around the edges to feel funky and genuine, but you can find good coffee and a decent bagel without making too many laps around downtown. I’ve been there a couple of times before, and the more time I spend there the more I like it. Astoria was also the point where I intended to turn right and head north, across the mouth of the Columbia and straight up the Washington coast, via what may be the sketchiest bridge in the Northwest, maybe the whole damn country. The Astoria Bridge is a big mother: 24,474 feet long and suspended over 30 stories abover the river.

Now, a note about bridges, motorcycles, and me: While no longer an issue, at one time in the not so distant past, tall skinny bridges used to give me the shakes, and I don’t scare easily… even in situations where being scared would be a really good idea. There is a bridge in my own back yard that really rattled me every time I crossed it (which was an almost daily occurrence for almost two years), even behind the wheel of my GMC pickup. The Hood River Bridge was so unnerving I’d detour an extra 22 miles when on two wheels just to avoid it. It wasn’t just me, either. A few years ago, my road trip navigator/bombardier Andy a.k.a. the bitterman and I became the unwitting victims of a mid-bridge traffic snafu, and found ourselves stuck on the northbound span with my 26’ Airstream Overlander travel trailer in tow behind said pickup. After a couple of minutes swaying around in the 35MPH crosswinds, Andy looked down through the steel grate bridge deck to the water 100 feet below, and as the color drained from his face and his left eyebrow began to spasm uncontrollably, he turned to me and slowly and deliberately mouthed the words: “get… me… off… this… f@cking… bridge…”

Now you’d think at times like these I’d take the opportunity to taunt and humiliate my good friend, because that’s what guys like me do. We live for the opportunity to harangue those whose irrational fear of the ridiculous make them an easy target, and let’s face it, if you can’t kick a man when he’s scared catatonic, you may as well turn in your steel-toed Chuck Taylors.

Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you? Fortunately for both of us the traffic started moving before I finished my steering wheel origami project and Andy created some kind of bench seat biohazard. After all, nobody needs a pickup truck with a steering wheel in the shape of a demented swan, and there aren’t enough pine tree air fresheners in all the Flying J Truck Stops in North America to cover up the aftermath of Andy being stuck on that bridge for another 5 minutes.

After being scared witless by the HRB for a couple of months I decided enough was enough. I cured my aversion to the span in less than an hour one day by riding my Honda XR650 back and forth on the beast for as many trips through the tollbooth as it took for the simple act of crossing 1485 linear feet of steel grate decking to no longer bother me. At fifty cents a trip, I invested exactly six bucks to beat what soon became merely another way to cross the river. I figured I was finally cured of such nonsense, and so it seemed until I looked up and saw the Astoria Bridge literally disappearing into the clouds overhead.

With that familiar rattled feeling falling over me I parked directly beneath the monster for a while, grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby shop, and just pondered the situation I had intentionally put myself in by riding up the Oregon side of the river. I sat there for a full twenty minutes, then for probably the millionth time in my life, I simply mouthed the words “screw it”, and took aim at what was bugging me and just fired away.

In this case the projectile was me, as I jumped on the bike and headed up and across the bridge. The crossing wasn’t really that bad, much like most things that seem insurmountable at first glance but turn out to be just slightly terrifying. When I think about it, I had much the same feeling when I moved in with my now ex-girlfriend Lisa and shared a roof with a significant other for the first time, all at the tender age of 41. Of course, sharing one’s home with another person can hardly be compared to riding a motorcycle across the Columbia River. In this case the analogy just doesn’t work, especially when you consider the fact I have some pretty fond memories of the view from that bridge.

Once on the Washington side, I ran up the Long Beach Peninsula, all the way to the aptly named village of Oysterville. Oysterville may be the only coastal community on this side of the country that reminds me of my former Mid Atlantic home turf. The Chesapeake Bay feel about the place was uncanny. Maybe it was the huge piles of oyster shells scattered around that sent that chill up my spine and made me think of how much I miss my many friends on the east coast and one tall blonde in particular who hails from that area’s oyster capital, Cape Charles, Virginia. Maybe it was just the fact that I could actually see the ocean without peering off a cliff to do so, as is the norm out here. No matter. The similarities evaporated about thirty seconds after delivery of a fried oyster sandwich at Pete’s Fish House, because while all fresh oysters are worth whatever value the menu places on them, there is absolutely, positively nothing like a real Chesapeake Bay oyster. Every other bivalve is just tasty slime, almost as good as the real deal, and anyone who read the previous piece knows how I feel about “almosts”.

Good slime consumed and washed down with a stellar local IPA, I turned east and connected with RT 101 again with the intent of riding all the way up the WA coast and around the Olympic Peninsula. I ended up turning right and running inland about halfway into my route when the fog and constant drizzle just got to be too much to take. One far enough east to actually see the sun, I grabbed a campsite for the evening at a county park just outside of Chehalis, WA. To date Chehalis had only been know to me as the former home of Klein Bicycles, the birthplace of four very expensive, very beautiful and very light bicycles I’ve owned over the last decade or so. Tonight I was just happy Chehalis far enough inland to be reasonably dry and free of the solid wall of fog I had bailed out of. Pea soup, indeed; this stuff was more like mashed potatoes, but cold, like something you’d get at Denny’s after making fun of your waitress’ back fat.

Just a quick note on camping vs. hotel rooms: While I’m certainly financially fortunate enough to opt to camp as opposed to being forced to out of necessity, I do so because sleeping in a tent mitigates a serious character flaw of mine that most often rears its ugly head when presented with the combination of a comfortable hotel room bed the hundred or so channels of cable TV available at the press of a button. In short, for all my bravado about getting “out there” and hammering out miles, when given the opportunity to loaf around, I’m in, and in a big way. This shortcoming is especially glaring when faced with starting the day in less than ideal conditions. Given the opportunity to charge out the door into the chilly, damp morning fog or roll over and watch another half hour of the weather channel, I’ll always take the latter. This generally leads to an hour of Home and Garden TV, and maybe another 30 minutes or so of Animal Planet Albino Weasel Rescue, or whatever appropriately inane programming is available at the moment. This also leads to late-morning or noonish start times and really lousy mileage counts by day’s end.

When you wake up in a tent covered in dew, getting on the bike is a hell of a lot more comfortable than spending another hour on my damp, inch thick Slumber Jack camp mattress, and the imagined sound of the closest coffee shop’s bean grinder has me bouncing off the ground at daybreak like a man with a purpose, my general aversion to purpose be damned.

When daybreak came to Lewis & Clark State Park I reacted accordingly and after locating a decent cup of Mother’s Milk, headed for Rainier National Park. My stomach’s trash talking led me to a quick stop in Morton, WA for breakfast and an impromptu route consultation with a couple of Goldwing riders who apparently had the same taste in greasy eggs and strong coffee as me. Unlike that big phomy Al Gore, I also discovered what appears to be the End of the Internet, but that's not important right now. Their input resulted in a couple of minor changes to my route, but the consensus was clear: The park’s roads were terrific, the weather forecast was sunny and mild, and apparently I was in for one Hell of a Day.

Let me preface the next few paragraphs with the following disclaimer: I fully realize that I may have claimed to have found the “Best Motorcycle Road in America” a couple of times already in this ride series, and being of strongly average intelligence, realize that by definition there can only be one “best” road. That said, please understand that as I was rolling the DL650 into yet another left-right transition, mid 90’s Pearl Jam blaring in my headphones and me whooping manically into my empty helmet every time I overshot a corner and managed not to ride off a cliff, I really meant it when I screamed: “This is the greatest road ever” at whatever member of the animal kingdom was squashed on the pavement nearby. More than one Ground Squirrel nodded in agreement as I blasted past, so I have to conclude there must be more than a couple “best roads” in this big country. Once I figure out the plural of the word “best” I’ll have a better handle on this. For the moment, I’m perfectly OK if the lot of you consider me just another babbling idiot.

At least I’m a happy idiot. I’ve got that going for me.

Even an idiot could see the main road into the park is one of the most gorgeous in the country. Once actually in the park, the scenic volume goes all the way to “11” as it climbs its way through old growth forest, crosses an active glacier, and affords the rider with huge views of Mount Rainer on the way up. While heavily patrolled, it also has tons of the kind of mountain road switchbacks and decreasing-radius high-speed corners that you only see in magazine articles about motorcycle tours of the Swiss Alps. I shut my brain off for a few miles and just pinned it through some of the hairier sections, because, well, I was riding the Best Motorcycle Road in America and who knew if and when I might get back there again. While the park is only about three hours from my home, the way things have been going for me the last couple of years I take nothing for granted, including being able to ride the same road twice or being able to ride again, period. I’ve always thought that a little adversity is a great motivator. Recently I’ve found that a lot of the same makes you bold, and living bold makes for great stories at best, a spectacular exit at worst. So far, I’ve been lucky enough to be graced with plenty the former, but one blown corner entrance and well, I guess you’ll hear all about it at about eleven o’clock one fine summer evening.

To quote my buddy Waldo, circa 1984 or so: “I ain’t scared”.

About halfway across the park I was about ready to back it off a notch in an attempt to live another day when I found myself approaching the aptly named Paradise Visitor’s Center. It features panoramic views of the mountain and glaciers, as well as a decent restaurant as well as an appropriately cheesy tourist trinket shop, the clearance aisle of which yielded a fine addition to my coffee cup collection as well as a “got air?” sticker (referring to Rainier’s 1400’+ summit) which landed on the right pannier.

I wasn’t the only rider in Paradise that day. To my left I spotted a group of adventure bike riders that appeared to be flying the Swedish flag from one of their BMW’s. Further inspection revealed two things: First, despite my own Swedish heritage, my knowledge of Things Scandinavian sucks. I turned out; the flag in question wasn’t Swedish at all, but Finnish. Second, the group numbered 22 very serious riders who had shipped their bikes to Alaska and were in the process of riding to Argentina, in an attempt to run the entire length of the Americas. I was both impressed and taken down a huge notch at the same time. It figures, after a summer of great rides, and just when I think there’s a chance I might start to remotely resemble a motobadass, a bunch of pasty white Finns put me in a skirt and Man Bag… figuratively speaking of course.

I ended up riding the back half of Paradise with these guys and grabbed a burger with them at the bottom of the mountain. Most of them spoke decent English and I just sat and listened while they compared the last 22 miles with the previous 2000. I was surprised to hear how the road we just ran rated as one of the best chunks of pavement they had run to date, and that little voice in the back of my head simply said “You live here, idiot, and they traveled halfway across the world to get here. Be happy, be really happy”

While it’s true most mental health professionals would strongly advise against listening voices that speak to you from the recesses of your skull, what with Charlie Manson setting a bad example and ruining it for the rest of us, I just quietly mumbled “thank you” to no one in particular and caught myself hoping the following Spring would find me fit enough to do this all over again. As I said before, I take nothing for granted. The chance meeting also had me convinced that an Alaska ride was definitely on my dance card, and soon.

The road home was familiar, carving through what is generally referred to as Volcano Country. There are literally hundreds of miles of both paved and gravel roads running around the greater Mt. Saint Helens metro area. The worst of the bunch are merely great. The best and somewhat obscure are outrageous, both in scenery and technical merit. In other words, there is no bad route past St Helens and through the Gifford Pinchot National Forrest and south, to the Columbia River. No bad routes indeed, providing you’re riding something that doesn’t mind getting dirty.

I stopped at one of the Mt Saint Helens overlooks and spent a few minutes staring at what used to pass for a proper mountain before it literally blew its top off, some twenty eight years ago. Despite all the self-induced brain damage that I’ve managed to bring upon myself since 1980, I distinctly remember sitting in my primo college digs at the Courtney Arms Apartments in then-vibrant Fredonia, NY, watching the news reports that detailed the mountain’s massive explosion and the resulting death and destruction that ensued. It all seemed fairly surreal at the time. After all, it was almost 3000 miles away and just about as far removed from my world as you could get and still be talking about an event that occurred within the confines of the continental USA. “Otherworldly” would be an overstatement, but it sure seemed as likely to effect me as getting beaned by an asteroid streaking in from deep space. Still, I remember watching in fascination as the mount vomited steam red-hot magma like a Alpha Phi sorority girl a fifth deep in Quervo.

What a difference three decades makes. If the same eruption occurred today, my house would be covered with ash, and I’d be packing for “vacation” to Santa Cruz or some other locale that offered the smell of coffee and the sound of the ocean at dawn, great roads, and a reasonable proximity from Helen’s deadly molten lava. I’ve also taken to referring to college students (even those claiming to be "working their way through school" by swinging on the brass pole) as “kids”.

Damn, how things change. At least I’m still riding.