The next morning, after coffee and good conversation with Joanne, I rolled back down the 1/4 mile of dirt road between the Stanley's home and Rt. 522 (this section of Rt. 522 is exceptional). As I departed, I may have felt as good as I did when, two days ago, I traded a long stretch of interstate for red line and rode onto Skyline Drive. Not far from Middleburg, I accessed a multilane highway heading south along the remarkable Susquehanna River Valley. Just down the road, I approached and passed by Harrisburg, PA.
 

Departing Pennsylvania

My destination this morning is a tribute to all my family and friends including those I met between Cherokee, NC, and central Pennsylvania. Up until the morning of June 30, I falsely believed that I had visited all 48 of the lower states on my '82 CX. On that morning, while fingering through my road atlas at the PA welcome center off I-70, I realized I had missed Delaware! For the next few hours, I was reasonably certain that a trip to Delaware was not necessary. Then I met Tony, the CX enthusiast and he was thrilled to hear about what I'd done on my own CX. Next, of course, I met a similar enthusiast, Claude, and like Tony, he was impressed enough to ask for a picture of me with the bike. I cannot recall anyone else, over ten years, ever asking for such a picture. After about ten hours of talking with my little voice inside, and those experiences just described, I decided I had no option but to head southeast towards Delaware in the morning.

Along the way, I met Crail Gordon Jr.. He and I talked at the pumps long enough for an attendant to ask, "if our meeting was over yet". Unfortunately, for that fellow, it was not. I suspect Crail and I held up that pump for a solid 40 minutes. Crail was wearing jean pants and a vest, biker boots and dark wrap style sunglasses. His ride was a recently purchased Harley-Davidson. Turns out, Crail is CEO of a vinyl compounds manufacturing company out of Denver, PA. But our conversation never approached "vinyl"; instead, we shared our philosophies of how things were and how we'd like them to be. If you can believe it, I felt some emotion when I waved goodbye to Crail. Somehow, in less than one hour, Crail and I formed a respect similar to that shared between brothers. Just before we parted, Crail provided local knowledge of the area that allowed me to slip easily into Delaware and then onto I-95 north.

A few hours later (I stopped for lunch) Ms. Culpepper and I rolled into Delaware and (really this time!) our 48th state. Combine these states with five Canadian provinces and 50,000 road miles and you have a very brief summary of a very long story. Folks often wonder why I've gone so far and so often. I did not have an answer that satisfied me until recently...as recently as about the middle section of my cross-country trip in 2003. There are two parts to the answer. The first part I'll take from my 2003 trip journal: 12 July 2003, "My trips are made in search of rediscovery. In this sense, they are similar to trips of discovery made by individuals like C. Darwin, L. Agassiz, J. Muir, and E. O. Wilson". Second, I have come to realize that my trips provide a means to search for serendipity, i.e., wonderful events that happen by chance.

Approaching Massachusetts

Text & photos © André Breton

Along Route 35, in Richfield, I passed a gas station; Citgo I think. I rode on about 1/4 mile before deciding to turn back and fill up my 3.2-gallon tank (in ideal conditions, I get close to 140 miles off a full tank including reserve fuel). My intention was to camp in a state park a few miles down the road and into a state forest. However, all of this changed and dramatically when I met Anthony "Tony" Graybill at the Citgo pumps. For instance, he informed me that the "state park" was actually a primitive "state forest campground" with neither facilities nor campground hosts. This was exceptionally bad news for two reasons: (1) I was running (since leaving Asheville) without any lights at all and (2) it was 7:30PM and the nearest state park was at least 1 hour away (Reeds Gap or Paddy Creek S.P.). Appreciating my predicament, and being a CX "nut", Tony suggested he call a friend and general motorcycle enthusiast (especially sidecars) that would likely let me pitch my tent in his yard. After a brief cell phone call, I was following Tony along routes 35, 140, and west on a very pretty section of 522 to Middleburg, PA. All of this led to the home of Claude and Joanne Stanley.
 

Claude Stanley, Middleburg, Pennsylvania

Claude works for a company that sends prefabricated log homes all over North America and even a few to offshore locations including Germany and Japan. By accumulating rejected pieces from the factory, Claude has been able to build two complete homes on his property in Middleburg; his mom lives in one and Claude and Joanne live in the original homestead. Both homes are treated with a rich brown stain on natural siding; the trim is something like a forest green. Oak-dominated forest follows a gradual slope coming off a hill just south of the cabins and surrounds the cabins and grounds on all sides. As might be suspected, these woods draw in the local wildlife. Joanne showed me where deer often graze perhaps 10 feet from her windows. I heard coyotes as I drifted into sleep. As I packed my tent the next morning, I heard perhaps fifteen bird species singing or calling nearby including red-bellied and pileated woodpecker, great crested flycatcher, eastern phoebe, ovenbird, chipping sparrow and chestnut-sided warbler. The opportunity to pitch my tent amongst this setting was a tremendous privilege, but this was only the beginning of the generosity these folks had in store.

Inside the Stanley home(s) I met Bridget, their niece, Nana and her nurse, friend and fabulous cook Rosaline, and of course Joanne. They also had a number of cats that I was not able to count. But at least one preferred to hang out on rooftops. Joanne and Claude led Tony and I over to Nana's place for supper. Rosaline had prepared an outstanding dish including steak, kielbasa, and cabbage. I had two helpings and several glasses of good clean water that I suspect ran down from the hills beyond the cabins. By now, it was just about 10:30PM. Around this time, Tony stood up and suggested we go out to his shed (built on Stanley land), pull out his spare CX500 V-Twin engine, and remove the stator. Shortly after, he asked $40.00 dollars for the part but said he did not require payment right away. His exact words were something like, "send me the money whenever you can".

Following two valuable hours of lessons on the function and proper removal of several engine components, I had a stator in hand that experienced only 10,000 miles of use before the engine was made available for parts (bike was in a wreck). Along with the low miles, the stator color, pointed out by Tony and Claude, showed no signs of damage from overheating.

I did not, even when speculating wildly, ever expect to return to Massachusetts with a stator in my saddlebag. However, in all of my speculations I failed to include the factor of extreme generosity and unpredictability that strangers freely offer when a person, like myself, sets to wandering on the road. After ten years of traveling on and off again in North America, I have come to expect kindness when I approach strangers. But still, like most things, most people fall into the average, a few below and a few above. Given this fact, I will forever be impressed, in this story, by my good luck of encountering many above-average strangers exactly when I needed them, often, and far from well-traveled routes. Now I wonder, perhaps, if the Honda stator was only a means to a much larger end?

Text & photos © André Breton

Highway 240 took me to I-40, which I followed for 70 miles to an exit (Rt. 21) leading to Lake Norman State Park; Lake Norman is about 30 miles west of Winston-Salem, NC. It was an occasion of clear irony when I realized the state park did not include power hook-ups at the campsites. Ironic because I had paid for and not needed this option so many times in the last ten years. Once again, I had to rely on strangers, this time the campground hosts whom had power, for generosity in a desperate situation. They agreed immediately, and as usual, offered their friendship without reservation. This is truly how it is on the road.
 

Skyline Drive, Virginia

The next day I rode 200 miles on I-77 and I-81. At about this distance from Lake Norman, I came to an exit leading, in a few miles, to the southern terminus of Skyline Drive, Shenandoah National Park. Ms. Culpepper had performed flawlessly and this combined with my deep dislike for "blue lines" (interstate and other multilane highway) led to a decision to leave the security of easy rescue on the highway, to the relatively isolated Skyline Drive (a preferable and exceptional "red line" or secondary road).
 

Shenandoah National Park (south entrance), Virginia

I felt good when I returned to the road in Asheville, but an exceptional feeling of accomplishment, satisfaction, and returning home, including a wide grin and even audible laughter, ensued as I exited I-64 and entered Shenandoah National Park. After paying my entrance fee ($5), I climbed off the bike, pop started and then rode slowly into the solitude and sweet mountain air. Life gets no better than moments like this one.
 

Shenandoah Valley, Virginia

Pop starting, pictures, a long talk with a stranger, and solitude. Eventually I made my way to Big Meadows Campground, central Skyline Drive. Camping here is an offensive $19.00 (almost twice what the average person pays for monthly room rental). In addition, no electric at sites. Again, campground hosts came to my aid.

The next day, 30 June, "I was greeted by a perfect day...comfort factor a ten" (from my trip journal). At Front Royal, northern end of Skyline Drive, I made a poor decision to proceed along Rt. 522 north. Almost the entire stretch from Front Royal to Maryland (through WV) was chocked with traffic lights, local travelers and suburbia -- pavement, concrete, residential neighborhoods and strip malls. It was along this stretch that I felt I had come face first and hard into a wall of undesirables (paranoia, suburbia, ugliness). It seems to be the desire of at least those that control the money to turn everything east of the central Appalachians into a homogeny of life-less and impersonal scenery and experience. Unfortunately, these folks are realizing this desire at an alarming rate. Perched at a rest stop just inside Pennsylvania off I-70, I was very fortunate to be on the doorstep of one of eastern North Americas last remaining scenic splendors including the Shenandoah and Delaware River Valleys, ridge-valley Appalachian system, and Pennsylvania's Pocono Mountains in the northeastern section of the state.

This part of Route 522, in a word, sucked. This led to a rare scenario, me grinning as I rode north on I-70 and onto I-76 east (PA Turnpike). At exit #180, an exit I had bought fuel off of a few weeks ago, I returned with some hesitation to Rt. 522, which led me to a dream red line, Route 35 near Shade Gap, Pennsylvania.
 

Self portrait, Skyline Drive, Virginia

The dichotomy between an experience on 522, between Front Royal and PA, and 35 may be too wide for words to negotiate. Perhaps we could compare it to our response to a fresh glass of our favorite beverage to the same glass filled with the dirtiest toilet water we've ever encountered. Personally, I have no taste for toilet water and I suspect others share my preference. This makes me wonder why beautiful scenery, like that along Rt. 35, is ever transformed into that which we find along Rt. 522. To make the situation even worse, folks that accumulate more money than they or all their friends can spend in a lifetime refer to such pollution as "progress". Rt. 35 is not long but it is special. I recommend travelers in the east seek out this road between two long Appalachian Ridges (hence "Shade Gap") and any other little gems in the toilet water east of the central Appalachians they can find by chance.

Text & photos © André Breton

Perhaps I should thank the service man for the opportunity to add more red light "rolls" to my outlaw list for the day. Certainly, I owe him for seeing through his normal operating "haze" and offering me directions to an exceptional motorcycle shop, Strick's Cycle.

Ms. Culpepper, my name for the Honda, once again carried me out of a bad situation. Without a hitch, or traffic violation, I parked for the second time in one morning at the service doors of a motorcycle shop.
 

Sweetgum, North Carolina

A few hours after arriving to Strick's, I recorded the following comments in my journal: "At Strick's I found a family atmosphere...and was immediately welcomed and brought down from my highly disappointed emotional condition. After about 1 hour of hanging around, I realized that without any doubt I had found a collection of extremely generous and knowledgeable individuals".

I pulled into Strick's at about 10AM...and out at nearly 4:30PM. During the course of the day, I settled into long conversations with Michael, a road racer and mechanic, Bob, a philosopher, friend of Strick's and operator of a 1972 (I think) Honda Motorcycle, Gene and his wife (I hope she'll forgive me for misplacing her name...she treated me like a son), these two own the shop, the owner of a coffee shop next door to Strick's, and a bartender up town where I gulped down a cattle patty, fries and a Pepsi and wrote in my journal. I recommend anyone passing by Asheville stop in and visit Strick's Cycle Shop. The collection of individuals hanging around or working is the product of many years of honest, generous, and knowledgeable service and friendship provided by the Stricks.
 

Mushroom, North Carolina

Recall I started this "brief account" in order to tell the story of my failed stator? As soon as I finished rambling, including some unfriendly words directed at MR Motorcycle, Mrs. Strick (forgive me) took me back to discuss my problem with Michael, the service manager. Forty-five minutes later the problem was diagnosed: stator failure. This included two complications, which my budget could not negotiate then or now: (1) part from Honda valued at around $400.00 and (2) repair required the engine be removed from the frame and set-up on a workbench (labor about $600.00). Standing in the shop with Michael and Gene, we discussed my options. Option #1, make the repair, NOT AN OPTION. Realistic ideas included using a solar panel to trickle charge the battery during daylight hours. I went as far with this one as calling Radio Shack to check on panel availability. A better option seemed to be to purchase a second battery and a 120-volt trickle charger (suggested by Gene's wife). With these items, I could easily travel between campgrounds or gas stations and maintain a charge.

At 4:30PM, after a long day of good conversation, learning and laughs at Strick's, I prepared to depart. Additional items on the bike were a fully charged Yuassa battery ($35) and Yuassa trickle charger ($25). Including these items, and 1/2 hour labor (the bike was in the shop the entire day), my bill was around 100$. Just about everyone stopped what he or she was doing and came to stand along side of me as I fingered the starter button. Finally, Michael said, "I'd get out of here [if I were you]". I took his advice and appreciated the waves and peace sign as I charged up a side street and back onto the road.

Text & photos © André Breton

It is now the 28th of June. Temperature control and a queen size bed did not release me from a far away place until 7AM. All my chores, including cooking up oatmeal on the stone sink in my hotel room (my cheapness knows no limit), were done by eight.

I checked out, filled a bag with anything I could eat that wasn't tied down in the hotel lobby , and returned to my preferred space: outdoors. Next challenge was to try to get a charge on the battery followed by a jump using cables off a car or truck etc. Out of perhaps 35 or 40 cars in the Hampden Inn parking lot only one, a full-size van, was built prior to about 2002. My guts suggested that NONE of the majority would have or be willing to utilize jumper cables. These folks were also hidden somewhere in the hotel; likely eating breakfast in the lobby. However, the van owner and his son were shifting gear. Eureka! Old auto = sense enough to carry jumper cables and a willingness to assist strangers (not walk quickly away and call the police if they follow). The van owner was not an exception to this rule. After twenty minutes, I tried the bike and it started easily. Almost immediately, I sped off towards MR Motorcycle. Enroute, and running with all fuses pulled, I ran more traffic lights than I have in 33 combined years. Felt good.

Unfortunately, I did not write it down and have forgotten the man's name that helped me out in the parking lot at the Hampden Inn. His contribution to bailing my butt out in western North Carolina, though brief, was significant.
 

Myriapoda, North Carolina

The next part of the story is the only downer of the entire experience. Imagine I'm riding full outlaw style directly at a massive Honda motorcycle dealer. My thoughts are get there and quick and celebrate if the tires roll onto the oil (asphalt) outside MR's service area. I felt each mile rolled on the odometer; about 8 all together.

Directions provided by a local woman working the counter back at the hotel were exceptional. I am in her debt for leading me quickly to a bike shop. MR is a big dealer with an equally large service department (6 mechanics rings a bell). I may have bet my life that I could not lose at a facility with so many options. However, if I had done this, I'd be dead now. Feeling a great deal of satisfaction, I slipped off the motorcycle and strolled a few steps up to the service counter.

I explained my situation...something like: "I'm on the last leg of a month-long motorcycle tour. So far, I've covered about 5,000 miles riding between Boston and Ft. Collins, south to Oklahoma, east to Cherokee and north to Asheville and [their] shop. Also, I'm riding a 1982 CX500 Honda; in the last ten years, I've visited 48 (later I realized I had missed Delaware) states and 5 provinces and accumulated about 50,000 road miles doing it. At the moment, my motorcycle is DEAD and just outside your service door. The bike isn't charging...not sure what the problem is and I was hoping you could 'squeeze me in' for a diagnosis of the problem?" For the record, I have never been turned away by a bike shop anywhere in North America for any reason.

His reply: "We don't work on bikes that are older than ten years and even if we [could make an exception], we could not squeeze you in for a week and half".

I admit, at this point I was likely speaking poor English. So, any further attempts by me to talk sense into him were inefficient. The only assistance provided by MR was a suggestion to try Strick's Cycle Shop (888-592-2283; 180 Patten Ave, Asheville, NC 28801 -- write info down for future use!). I took directions and walked back to my motorcycle, which was in full view of the service desk. I put the bike in second gear, squeezed the clutch, and leaned heavy on the bars to get the bike rolling up a slope and around to start a run. Just before I began my push, he asked, "Do you need a hand pushing the motorcycle?"(!). Amongst other things, I thought to myself "I do not want to soil his immaculate clothing, clean hands, and baby face". He was by far the tidiest motorcycle shop service man I'd ever run across (in hindsight, this was screaming trouble from the start). In fact, his appearance suggested all his talents may have been locked up in getting dressed in the morning. This would also explain his desperate lack of common sense. I replied, "I don't think so", followed this with a few unfriendly comments, and started running.

Text & photos © André Breton

Now back to the events that led me to Asheville, Strick's Cycle, to the home of Claude and Joanne Stanley and eventually to Massachusetts. High on the Blue Ridge, at approximately 5,600 feet, with an approaching rainstorm, I pondered my options. On all my trips, I've camped nearly exclusively and for free when possible (National Forests and Grasslands, BLM Land, and sometimes private property). In addition, I visit grocery stores every 3 to 5 days to resupply my food cache. I also carry water, a pump to purify just about any water source (Florida swamps included), pot set, and stove etc. All together, these things allow me to camp anywhere I can get the motorcycle (boulder strewn roads in Big Bend not exempted) and for several days without needing to visit a town. As a result, I could have easily camped, option #1, on the mountain that night (it may have been a good test for my two-man 4-season Moss Tent; perhaps the best piece of gear I own). I felt any option that included leaving the bike and/or gear behind for many hours was a bad one. This left only camping or somehow hauling the bike to the nearest town with a bike shop.

After about 20 minutes of pondering and cleaning battery terminals (fuses all removed at this point, i.e., no lights or horn), I decided to attempt another pop start. This time it worked (battery recharged slightly in 20 minutes) and I immediately took off towards Asheville. As you hindsighters might expect, I didn't get far. In fact, I ended up exactly where I started after turning and coasting back down the hill I partially climbed.
 

Just behind me a white pickup waited patiently for me to turn, without lights or turn signals (only hand signals), into the scenic pullout. As this fellow pulled in and started for the exit, I leapt off the bike and started waving both arms. Fortunately, the driver of the truck noticed, but not before pulling almost completely out of the parking area.

Serendipity came through and big time when Chad came along. Chad is built like a pro-football lineman and happens to drive a small pickup! Later, Chad would inform me that he intended on turning around and returning home at the pullout a few miles north (nearer to Asheville). However, for reasons I don't recall, he decided to drive onto the next pullout. The latter is where I was stranded. Chad agreed without hesitation to do whatever necessary to get the motorcycle and myself to the outskirts of Asheville.

In moderately heavy showers, Chad and I lifted the front tire assembly onto the pickup's tailgate. In order to get the remainder of the motorcycle in the bed, someone had to hold the bike vertical while the other lifted. Unfortunately, with the bike doing a "wheelie" on the tailgate, this meant nearly all of the motorcycle's mass had to be lifted to get the full motorcycle in the bed. Following a few quick-deep breaths, Chad lifted, I steadied, and together we pushed the bike safely onto the truck. Next ensued some good knots that failed rather quickly, once we got rolling, to hold the bike vertical. The problem was I only had narrow-gauge climbing style rope (purchased to hang food in bear country) which stretches significantly under a load. We solved the problem quickly by almost laying the bike on its side and refitting the rope.

In persistent rain, poor visibility, and on convoluted mountain road, Chad and I covered 40 miles of Blue Ridge Parkway from where he found me to the outskirts of Asheville. For the most part, I felt good over this stretch. Chad and I talked constantly and we agreed that so far I had been quite fortunate. Folks often wonder what they'll find on the periphery or further from the places they know well. If they're lucky, they'll meet Chad or other individuals with whom I've crossed paths. However, it is more likely they'll meet their own series of interesting and generous strangers.
 

Holly litter, North Carolina

Chad was returning home to Hendersonville, NC, which he planned to access by returning to Asheville and then heading south on I-26. Within a few spits from I-26 were several hotels including the Hampton Inn at Biltmore Square. It was close to 7:30PM when we exited the parkway and spotted the first cluster of hotels. Based on what I knew about the cost of various hotels (almost nothing), I suggested he drop me at the Hampton Inn. Due to a pile-up of automobiles in front of the Hotel, Chad and I had to say so long and shake hands quickly. Fortunately, I did not forget to write down his phone number...otherwise he would have forever been "Chad" from Hendersonville!

Visa to the rescue and 100 dollars later, my dirty self and bags, assisted by a cart, strolled onto the elevator. Whenever I find myself in the need of a comfortable "tourist" option it generally results in a big hit to my budget. These experiences have made it clear to me why so many good people work long hours, 5 or 6 days each week and spend a fortune on their two weeks (!) of vacation time. Now, if they were getting something worthy of all their dollars, like a ride on the space shuttle, then I would be envious and likely find myself a similar full-life job. But this does not seem to be the case. Consider folks coming to Asheville to visit the sites, including the Biltmore Estates. What is it about a recycled hotel room, expensive restaurants, concrete and pavement and play-back tour guides that provide satisfaction enough to justify spending most of a short life working? Personally, I have been impressed at the efficiency of these experiences to distract the living from the places they visit. In short, all of my travels give me a strong impression that folks taking the "tourist" road miss everything and go broke doing it. Why not go cheap and get dirty with the places you've either stumbled into by chance or desired to experience all your life? Taking this route, for example, I found myself dining on caribou sausage and tur (local name for Common Murre; a seabird) served out of a canning jar with ample finger licking sauce alongside a local Newfoundlander; we ate with our fingers of course, washed the meat down with moderately-priced scotch, talked and enjoyed the relatively bug-free air flowing over Deer Lake. I may have to eat my words, but I doubt such a thing can occur inside the fabricated confines of a $100/night hotel room. If clean/dry sheets are what a traveler desires, then carry them. I've found they fit in a tent just as well as a concrete, wood, and steel box. It took me all that to say "DAMN, that's a lot of money for a place to sleep"!

Text & photos © André Breton

Scenic pull-offs are plentiful on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Combine these with friends/family that look forward to photos from my motorcycle adventures and a failed stator and you have a major inconvenience in the making. Mine occurred perhaps 15 or 20 miles from the scenic viewpoint where I inquired about fuel availability. Fortunately, engine stall from insufficient power to make a spark did not occur in a place where I could not get safely off the road. Instead, the bike failed at a scenic pullout. Subsequently, no matter how hot I managed to get my boot soles while running next to the bike, the engine would not catch. My hope of only a failed battery began to diminish and quickly. In its place, I hoped that a broken wire or bad connection was at fault. Worse case scenario, I speculated, was a failed component of the charging system.
 

Lone Bald Overlook, Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina

If I consider how many miles of worry-free travel my 1982 CX500 has given me, its first breakdown on the Blue Ridge represents a major victory rather than a failure. I began long-distance touring by motorcycle in the winter of 1997/98. During that winter, I rode solo over 3 months covering 26 states and 16,000 miles: Boston area south to Key West, along the Gulf to Brownsville, TX, northwest following the Rio Grande River Valley to Big Bend National Park (perhaps the most scenic place in NA that I've encountered), northwest to El Paso, TX, north to New Mexico, west to Arizona and the turn around at Grand Canyon, and from here back to Massachusetts (many miles were accumulated crossing Texas three times...I only mentioned one above...it's a long story!). On this trip, and all others since, I've ridden the same '82 CX. When I bought the bike in (about) 1996, I paid only 200 dollars and the odometer read just over 13,000 miles.

Since my first long-distance trip, I've completed four others: (1) With two friends, 2 weeks, (about) 3,000 miles, Fall 1999, northern and coastal Maine, New Brunswick, and the Gaspé Peninsula; (2) Solo, 5 weeks, summer 2002, 5,000 miles excluding ferry crossings between Portland, Maine and Yarmouth Nova Scotia (overnight ferry), North Sydney, Cape Breton and Port Aux Basque, Newfoundland (NFDL), and St. Barbe, NFDL to Blanc Sablon Quebec-Labrador border town, including paved and dirt roads in the Canadian Maritimes and Newfoundland-Labrador; (3) Solo, 6 weeks, summer 2003, 11,000 miles across North America from the Boston area to just north of San Francisco, up Rt. 101 into Washington, across northern states, ferry across Lake Michigan, across Canadian border at Sault Ste. Marie, east to New Brunswick and south to Massachusetts, (4) Solo, 5 weeks, 6,000 miles, trip just completed.
 

Gros Morne National Park, Newfoundland

Accomplishments and experiences from these trips are too many to list and likely, more than you desire to read! However, a few are worth putting out there especially considering the appearance and age of the motorcycle: combined trips have taken me to all 48 lower states and 5 provinces (all those east of Manitoba); the bike and I have crossed every major mountain range excluding those in Alaska and including the Appalachians and Rockies (many times and at several latitudes), Sierra Nevada (crossed at Tioga Pass, Yosemite National Park, near 10,000 ft.), Coast Range, and North Cascades (my personal favorite); encounters with impressive North American rivers have been many and I cherish every one of them including those with the Connecticut, Hudson, Delaware, Susquehanna (personal favorite), Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, Platte (and branches), Arkansas, Rio Grande, Colorado, Green, Yampa, Columbia and Snake; American deserts are all unique and generally HOT...the CX crossed the Sonoran, Chihuahuan, and Great Basin flawlessly (yet to visit the Mojave); elevations caused a reduction in gas mileage but otherwise the bike handled the reduced oxygen environment well including crossings over 10,000 feet in the Rockies and Sierra Nevada, across a section of routes 6 and 50 in the Basin and Range region of south-central Utah and Nevada the bike and I crossed 6 or 7 ranges over 7,000 feet and in between the driest desert I've encountered before or since all in the same day (primary desert vegetation cover was greasewood)...again, this time due to extreme hot temps, WIND, and moderately high elevations, gas mileage suffered, other highlights include the "Avenue of the Giants" through giant coastal redwoods in northern California, massive dry lake beds in south-central Nevada, solitude and stunning scenery along dirt roads in the northeastern quadrant of Yellowstone National Park, all of Big Bend (!), glacially sculpted and domed Appalachian hills and interfingering saltwater bays and fjords of Gros Morne National Park, Newfoundland, and lastly scenery along the Susquehanna and Delaware Rivers in Pennsylvania. Honestly, I could go on for a while like this...North America seems to be endless in its diversity, and opportunity for serendipity.

Text & photos © André Breton

André Breton begins his account of his experiences on the road between eastern Tennessee and Massachusetts during the summer of 2004.

On 1 June 2004, I departed Massachusetts on my 1982 CX500 Honda initiating my fifth long-distance motorcycle-camping tour of North America; at around 1800hrs on July 2, I rolled back into the Boston area. Thanks to an extremely reliable and durable Honda motorcycle and friends met on the road including everyone at Strick's Cycle, Anthony "Tony" Graybill, Claude and Joanne Stanley and Crail Gordon Jr., I managed to complete the three major sections I had planned for this trip: (1) Boston, MA to Ft. Collins, CO, (2) Ft. Collins to Cherokee, NC (southern end of the Blue Ridge Parkway), (3) Cherokee to Boston. Below is a brief account of the events that ensued on the last section of the trip including a ride into Asheville, NC on four wheels rather than two and eventually, a successful return to Massachusetts.
 

Foothills, South-east Tennessee
 

Route 64 east, Tennessee

Unknown to me, the stator (major component of the charging system) failed on the Honda somewhere in eastern Tennessee. I suspect the fully charged battery carried me another 150–200 miles after the stator died. I could have done better, perhaps 300 miles, if I had known the charging system was down by pulling fuses and pop starting the bike (release the clutch in second gear with the bike rolling)...but of course, this insight did not make itself known until it was too late. I should be grateful that the bike failed where it did...40 miles south of Asheville and at 5,600 feet above sea level along the Blue Ridge Parkway. It was somewhat worse than this...since after 20 minutes of fiddling with mainly the battery and cleaning connections, I lost visibility beyond about 75 feet and almost immediately was standing under a moderately heavy rain. But honestly, it could have been worse...the day before, likely without a charging system, I rode the isolated and beautiful Cherohala Scenic Skyway (TN and NC) and convoluted "Tail of the Dragon" (318 turns in 11 miles, a section of Rt 129 in NC and TN).
 

Tail of the Dragon, Tennessee
 

Deal's Gap, Tail of the Dragon, Tennessee

On the morning of June 27, I experienced the first sign that something was not right with the Honda. At a campground in Great Smoky National Park, the starter sluggishly turned the V-Twin engine over. Fortunately, or unfortunately perhaps, the bike started quickly even given the weak crank offered by the starter. As a result and within about 5 minutes, I managed to forget this very important event.
 

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, North Carolina

Cherokee, NC, is home to an undesirable tourist trap and most importantly for my interests, the southern terminus of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I stopped for pictures below the "Welcome To" signs and of course, shut down the engine. After pictures, I don't recall if the bike started slowly or not, but this would be the last time (until the next day in Asheville) it turned over using its own power.
 

Blue Ridge Parkway entrance, Cherokee, North Carolina

About 6 miles out of Cherokee, along the parkway, I stopped, killed the engine, and asked a friendly couple how far heading towards Asheville before I encountered a fuel station. At this point, Asheville was something like 70 miles away. Following our brief conversation, I turned the key, hit the starter, and experienced the same silence I had prior to the previous motions. I checked to make sure the bike wasn't in gear. Unlike many times before, my butt was not saved by that simple inspection. For some reason, battery amperage was too low to engage the starter and turn over the engine.

At this point, I realized the slow start in the campground a few hours before was the bike trying to tell me something! Hindsight is 20/20 but generally not useful for dragging a butt out of a tight spot. In addition to the slow start, I recalled topping off the battery with tap water in eastern Oklahoma. At that time, all cells had dropped about 1 cm below the minimum recommended level. Additionally, the battery was approaching 3 years old. Both of these facts led me to falsely believe that my problem was a failing battery. With a great deal of confidence that I had a battery and not a charging problem, I coasted down hill and out of the scenic view parking area and then abruptly pop started the engine.

Text & photos © André Breton