John Wienstein's Ride In Wales
by
John Weinstein

The Ride

i'm back from 2 weeks of motorcycling thoroughout england and wales so i'll try not to be too smug! actually, it was great: 200 miles of twisties, country lanes, mountain passes and seaside cliff roads in southern and northern wales, the southern english coast, central england and the northern lake district. we hit plymouth, stonehenge and avebury, a passel of old castles and cathedrals (all about 800-900 years old), fishing villages, the cotswolds (where thatched huts are the norm), the dartmoor plains, cardiff, .... we did mainly back roads off the beaten paths. i was the first american that a few of the brits had ever met. (so much for anglo-american relations). when next together, remind me to tell you about the party at the biker thug bar, complete with a fellow who hammered 2 nails into his nose, public sex, on a bed of broken glass, and then the party really got started. all in all, it was the most challenging riding i've ever done and the most spectacular scenary i've riden. the vacation was dirt cheap too (excluding the frequent flier milages, under $400 for 2 weeks) and i recommend it to every one. if you have any desire to set up a similar vacation (though i'm not sure i can arrange the sex part for you), let me know. more details to follow...

thanks to steve beck who conducted two cams rides in my absence. i hope to schedule a ride for this saturday (the 13th) so mark ur calendars and stand by for more info. destination tbd. hope to see a bunch of you.

Great Britain on the Cheap: Motorcycling through England and Wales

Waiting In Anticipation

Last winter, I was thumbing through Britain's BIKE magazine while watching 26 inches of snow accumulate outside my window. Suddenly, a thought hit me like a thunderbolt: why not do a motorcycling vacation exchange in England? I picked up a pen and wrote to the editor of the magazine. Stating that I had two pristine motorcycles and lived in scenic northern Virginia, near the Nation's capital, Skyline Drive, and numerous Civil War battlefields, I invited a reader to visit me for two weeks and ride throughout the Piedmont and Middle Atlantic seaboard in return for being hosted for two weeks on the other side. I received 12 replies and finally settled on an invitation from Steve Plant, a 37 year old microbiologist living in southern Wales.

Wales' reputation for great scenery, along with his photographs of his 1981 Yamaha XJ 650 and FJ 1200 (ABS), the latter to be my steed, were irresistible. The biggest bugaboo was getting Steve's insurance policy to extend coverage to me as a guest rider. After heroic negotiations and short of adopting me, he succeeded. I planned to arrive 22 June and stay through 5 July. In theory, this would assume warm and pleasant weather while avoiding the crush of the European tourist season that begins in mid-July. The months of March through June dragged on interminably as my excitement reached a fevered pitch. The night before my departure, my home looked (more so than usual) like a disaster area with motorcycle gear strewn about. After all, how does one pack for the adventure of a lifetime?

Dealing With The Rounadabouts

Our photographs allowed Steve and me to pick each other out of the crowd at London's Heathrow Airport. He must have been terribly impressed when I started to get into the driver's seat in his right-hand drive car. With typical British aplomb, he guided me to the passenger side with an understated "I'll drive." During the three hour ride back to his home in Newport, near Cardiff, the capital of Wales, Steve explained the rules of the road in Great Britain: motorways (interstates) have speed limits of 80 mph; 'A' roads are 60 mph, and 'B' roads are 40. 1 asked what comes after 'B' to which Steve replied 'C'. While no roads have the 'C' designation, there are innumerable country lanes. During the trip home, all I could think about was getting the FJ 1200 on the road. We had decided that the best way of getting me used to riding on the left side of the road was that I'd follow Steve's lead. I told myself, as I was getting ready for my 65 mile 'shakedown' ride that afternoon, to take it slow. That plan lasted about IO minutes! The FJ purred and devoured the narrow twisty roads leading to the scenic Llandegfedd Reservoir (B4236), past Bully Hole Bottom in Usk (B4235), and to the ruins of the Tintern Abbey (A466). What surprised me was just how quickly one could leave behind the built-up environs of the Cardiff area and be in the middle of rolling farmland, lush valleys, mountains and sparkling brooks. To say that I was excited after the ride is an understatement of epic proportions! How could I wait for the morrow when Steve and I were to ride with his club, the Retreads, through the Black Mountains and the Elan Valley in southern Wales?

Such a Tourist!

Sunday morning was beautiful. Steve was worried that the day might be "unbearable hot", i.e., about 85 degrees! Since the Washington, DC weekend forecast had been 95 (both degrees and humidity), I told him I could probably tough it out. About 12 Retreads showed up for the ride. Our first stop was the Llanthony Priory (A465/B4423), first consecrated in I 1 08. Here, I first acknowledged the feeling that was to remain with me throughout my stay in Great Britain: the presence of an overwhelming sense of history. I couldn't help but marvel at the old buildings, bridges, and fortifications. After all, we have nothing of the sort in the United States. There I was, with my trusty Pentax, camera, shooting everything in sight. I was such a tourist! Then it was on to the Brecon National Park's Black Mountains. We rode down a maze of country lanes, just barely wide enough for one compact car. These lanes were usually covered with gravel and fresh piles of sheep manure; and to! keep one focused, there were sheep grazing along the sides of the road and hedges on each side were tall enough to obscure the view on oncoming traffic.

While trying to remember to stay to the left side of the road, since there was two-way traffic, and dodging the piles of manure that are as slick as any oil patch, a sheep darted directly across my path. The good news: I avoided it. The bad news: I was not traveling with my mint jelly. That afternoon was a rush of new adventures: 25 mph wind gusts on steep mountain switchbacks, quaint pubs and tea shops (though I never could bring myself to eat the clotted cream) in Hay-on-Wye and Brecon (B4520), and roundabouts. A few words about the latter: these are clockwise circles (with roads exiting at various angles) that control traffic in lieu of stop lights throughout much of Great Britain. The rule is simple: yield to the vehicle to your right that is already in the roundabout and signal before exiting onto one of roads connecting to various towns (and sometimes other roundabouts).

Following Steve's lead, and with occasional activation of the ABS, I navigated them like a pro. There is another riding convention that deserves mention: how the Brits deal with slow traffic on the narrow and winding country roads. Since the view of oncoming traffic is often obscured and a slow moving tractor could cause a multi-mile traffic jam, British motorcyclists use a clever! scheme to pass safely. As a rider overtakes a slow moving vehicle on a twisty road, he will remain in the center on the oncoming lane, with his passing blinker flashing. This indicates to the following riders that it is safe to pass. The followers will continue to pass until the leader spots an oncoming vehicle and returns to his own lane. This convention allowed the group to ride at a challenging pace and maintain its cohesion in a safe manner.

Take A Bath

On Monday, we hit the road at about 0800 to meet Roger and Pat Baggott, who had ridden with us on Sunday, for a four day ride through southern England. Once again, I was safely cradled between Steve's 650 and Roger's Vulcan 750. We rode to Bath (A46), site of the old hot spring baths frequented by everyone from the Roman occupiers to the Victorian aristocracy. Bath is renowned for its classic architecture and the city is very much alive. It was very entertaining to walk down the old streets and hear a fiddler playing Celtic tunes on one street corner while a Bolivian Indian band played its ancestral music on another. The Pumphouse is the place to take tea and tour the old baths. Steve said that by entering the building and going straight to the rest rooms (not to be called bathrooms), we could see the baths at no charge. We only had to be 'inconspicuous'. As we entered the building, in our leathers and holding our helmets, and where tourists were taking tea on linen-co! vered tables and enjoying the music of a chamber ensemble, I couldn't help but chuckle at the incongruity. Fathers were practically reaching out to protect their daughters and women were hiding behind their napkins. Inconspicuous? Yeah, right! In any event, the baths were great and we didn't pay a pence.

Cottages And Quaint Surroundings

Our next stops were Castle Coombe A420) on the edge of the Cotswolds. The little town with half timber construction along a singing brook was everything I imagined a quaint English village to be. Steve said that before my two weeks stay was over, I would overdose on quaint English villages. He was wrong. After a massive lunch and a tour of the historic church, we rode to the prehistoric circular rock formations at Avebury (A4, A361) and Stonehenge (A345/A344). The latter formations are better known but I preferred Avebury: fewer tourists, no buses, great cottages with thatched roofs (I couldn't believe the thatching lasts up to 20 years!), and a quieter pace to enjoy these impressive structures. We had reservations at the Harbour Light Bed and Breakfast (B&B) in Poole so we left Stonehenge at about 1530. Though we were supposed to be there by 1800, Steve took us on extended (i.e., we were lost) tours of Salisbury (A345) and Bouremouth (AA354/A350). Roger surmised that we were lost when we passed the same Salisbury bicycle shop for the third time. Quoting Daniel Boone, I assured Roger that we weren't lost, just a mite confused for an extended period of time.

We arrived at the Harbour Light and were given our rooms by the very gracious hosts, Ralph and Lynn Hodges. Lynn showed me to the Snowdrop room. I fared better than Steve: he got the Buttercup. The rooms were clean and utilitarian and after a long day on the bike, any bed looked good to me. But before retiring, it was off by cab to the Poole Quay (harbor) for a fish and chips dinner and a few pints of Tanglefoot, the local beer. Suffice it to say that England is a beer and ale-lover's paradise! On Tuesday, our departure was delayed by Ralph who regaled us with stories of the old "motorbikes" of his youth. In fact, scores of people, to include an 80 year old veteran and his wife of 60 years, our cabby in Poole, and a businessman I met in a rest area, were eager to discuss their old bikes upon seeing that we were riders. We rode across the Poole harbor on the Sandbanks Ferry in the cool of the sunny morning to the Isle of Purbeck and on to Corfe Castle (B3351) through tree-lined country lanes. After stopping at the castle for the usual photo op, we rode to Lulworth (A352,B307I)for tea and to enjoy the Durdle Door, a huge rock formation hollowed out by the sea.

The Sea

In the afternoon, we stopped at Lyme Regis, a seaside resort, where we walked along the boardwalk, watched children playing cricket on the beach (I still don't understand that game!), explored the Royal Naval Lifeboat Station, and, in general, enjoyed the salty air and the sight of people enjoying themselves.! A short ride put us on the Dartmouth Ferry for the last leg of that day's journey. I should note that Great Britain is a very motorcycle-friendly country. Generally, motorcyclists pay no tolls on bridges, ride ferries for free, and have special areas reserved for parking. The ride to Salcombe, where we were to spend the next two nights at The Lodge B&B, was one of the most enjoyable of the trip. The road (A379) snaked along the coast, often along the edge of a 200 foot cliff overlooking the breakers of Lyme Bay, through little towns and villages. At Slapton, a little village on a spit of land jutting into the water, I found one of the more poignant monuments of the trip: an old US Sherman tank that had been lost at sea during the Normandy invasion and recovered and restored in 1954. A joint US - British memorial plaque commemorated a young American soldier from Ohio who had been stationed in the town and subsequently lost his life in France.

After a short hop to Salcombe, we settled into our comfortable rooms and then enjoyed a superb meal at the Ferry restaurant. Our delicious dinners were consumed above a patio, overlooking the bay, where about 50 Brits were glued to a television set watching the semi-final (England vs. Germany) soccer ! match of the Euro Cup. The oohs and ahs of each play lent a unique background to our conversations. When we saw a young man crying on the patio after the shouting had stopped, it was apparent that England had come up short. Our luck seemed to run out on us as Wednesday dawned gray and drizzling. We ate our usual sumptuous English breakfast of eggs, juice, toast, ham, tomatoes, potatoes, and cereal. As we donned our rainsuits, I quickly learned that England and America are, in Winston Churchill's words, two countries separated by a common language. Steve and Roger were quite amused when I told them that I had to tighten the suspenders on my rainsuit's overalls. Between guffaws, they told me that in England, suspenders refer to ladies' garters and that the word I needed was 'braces'. All suited up and looking lovely, I followed my tormentors along the coast road (A387,B3253) to Plymouth. There, we saw memorials to the Pilgrims'journey, a 200+ year-old lighthouse, the Citadel that had defended the city, Drake's Island, an off-shore patch of rock where Sir Francis Drake purportedly engaged in sports before going out to thrash the Spanish Armada in 1588.

C'est le boeuf!

The rains ended before we left Plymouth for Polperro, a quaint fishing village on the Cornwall shoreline. In Polperro, I ate my first pasty, a meat and potato pie. I explained to my hosts that these should not to be confused with the pasties of Gypsy Rose Lee fame. Returning to Salcombe, we rode along the coast, saw a zillion more picturesque villages, and then made a brisk ride to The Lodge for a much needed shower and then steak and kidney pies at the Ferry. I was excited on Thursday. As a big fan of Sir Arthur Conan Doyal's Sherlock Holmes, I was eager to see the Dartmoor Prison I had read about in my youth. Conan Doyal's description of the Dartmoor plain (A381 A384,B3357) as a barren and forbidding expanse, inhabited only by herds of miniature ponies, was belied by the intensely sunny day and the cool dry breeze. As I took photos from about half of mile away, about 30 "mad" English cows came over to watch. Had I been a bit quicker with the Pentax, I could have gotten a nifty photo of a baby cow being made. C'est le boeuf! All that photography made an awful thirst so it was over to Whitacomb-inthe-Moor for tea and cakes. The moor ponies have the run of the village green and allow themselves to be petted by the busloads of tourists.

We continued north through Exeter and Exmoor, both defined by the river Ex, and then over to Lymouth on the Bristol Channel coast for coffee and donuts. Hot liquids were necessary as the temperature began to plummet rapidly, dropping almost 15 degrees in a little over an hour. We ascended Porlock Hill (A39), reputed to be the steepest in England, and blasted home to Newport. As we motored home, we enjoyed a spectacular red sunset. My exhilaration over the last four days and 675 miles was undiminished, even when the toll operator on the Severn River almost decapitated me with the toll gate bar as I was leaving the booth (after being given a 'no charge' wave-through). Those ABS brakes saved my bacon, again! Steve and I had decided that we'd take it easy on Friday. That decision made a virtue out of necessity since it was pouring when I awoke.

Sightseeing By Cage

We went sightseeing by car to Cardiff and made some adjustments on the bikes that afternoon in Steve's garage (pronounced ga-rage). At about 1800, we set off on a 70 mile ride to Worcester (A449), in south central England, to spend the night at Steve's parents' house. Worcester would serve as a good jumping off point for our long ride into northern England to meet up with another respondent to my magazine ad. In addition to his folks' gracious hospitality, I was treated to a 'cracking' (English slang for 'neat-o') tour of the 900 year-old Worcester Cathedral, the fourth oldest in England, by Steve's mother who volunteers there. One cannot help but be impressed by the magnificence of that structure when one considers the rudimentary construction techniques of the day. Also, I visited the Morgan motorcar factory, also in Worcester. Onl! y seven Morgans are produced.each week in a 'factory' which, incredibly, is little more than a collection of low-tech sheds where most operations are done by hand. I was told there is currently a seven year wait for these $45,000 roadsters. (Kinda puts the one-year wait for Harleys in perspective, doesn't it?).

A Pig Of A Ride

The ride up the M5 and M6 motorways to meet Karl Millyard, a Lancashire constable detective from Preston, was a pig of a ride. It was overcast and a 30 mph wind was blowing across us. On one occasion, it caught the failing of the FJ and started to sail me into the center guard rail. Steve, weighing 75 lbs less than I and on the lighter 650 was having an even less pleasant time. We reached the J23 exit at about 1615 where we met Karl and two other members of his motorcycle club, The Jesters. Our welcomers were a noteworthy bunch: Karl is my size, about 6'2" and weighs about 225. He was on his Honda CBX 750. Phil, nicknamed 'Sumo', is a 20 stone (about 290 lb) debt collector with arms the size of small tunnels. He rides a chopped Harley with straight pipes that could be heard in France. Bernard, a.k.a. 'Fossil' because of his advanced age (42), was on an old Suzuki GS 850 which had already been once around the clock. Our plan was to bring sleeping bags to a pub for an all-night party benefitting the National Association for Bikers with a Disability (NABD). NABD is a wonderful organization that acquires or helps modify motorcycles and trikes for bikers with an accident-induced disability or birth defect.

Newkie Brown Mate!

We rode through a depressed area to the Horse and Jockey pub in Bury, near Manchester. When I saw the pub, situated on a street appropriately named 'Pit o't Moor', it occurred to me that Bury was more aptly a prescription than a name. The Horse and Jockey was filthy and the patrons were a rough looking group. Never have I seen so many tattoos, pierced body parts, thigh-high boots and stiletto heels and fishnet stockings (secured with suspenders). At the same time, however, the bikers were all friendly and there were no attitudes. In fact, one big difference I noted between US and UK riders is that the latter don't get hung up on bike marques. In the UK, if one rides a motorcycle, be it a 125 cc standard or a Harley or a Kawasaki ZZR- 1100, one's a biker and accepted as such. Very nice! To continue the tale of the Horse and Jockey, the carpet was grungy and had absorbed so much spilled beer (i.e., Newcastle Brown Ale, also known as 'Newkie Brown', the bikers' drink of choice) that the stools stuck to it. The evening was punctuated by numerous memorable events, such as the multi-tattooed and -pierced chap who hammered two 4-inch nails straight into each nostril and a couple who decided to copulate 9to the disregard of the other revellers) during the party (modesty be damned!).

Although Steve, who was wearing a riding suit and pull-on derry boots, took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the leather-clad crowd, a beautiful woman sought him out and spent the night by his side. I surmised that his attractiveness was due to the fact that he was three or four rungs up the food chain as opposed to the local denizens, most of whom had escaped the primordial ooze to party at the Horse and Jockey. His "date" captured the sense of the place when she noted that the floor under her sleeping bag wasn't too uncomfortable once the broken glass was swept away. All in all, the band was great, the beer was cold, the people were friendly, and there was real camaraderie between the bikers. There was a light drizzle on Sunday morning when we headed out to the Harley shop in Middleton. While Sumo exercised his charge card, Karl, Steve, Fossil and I enjoyed browsing through the acres of chrome. The proprietors were friendly. We passed the time discussing dding differences in the US and UK and, as I left, they handed me a t-shirt to commemorate my visit. By the time we left Middleton, it had stopped raining. We rode 40 miles to a bike show in Chorley (A6) where Steve's 650 took first place in the Japanese bike category. There were many spectacular bikes there, some sporting two nitrous bottles! My most notable memory is the accent of the locals, the Chordies.

I had to ask a security guard to repeat the parking instructions four times and I still failed to understand him. After the show, we went to Rivington Barn, a park where many bikers congregate to talk bout bikes and to show them off. From there, it was a quick 20 miles back to Karl's house in Preston ! where his wife, Colette, prepared us a delicious dinner while we played with his two young children. Karl's house was not large enough to accommodate his growing family. Instead, he had made arrangements with Mick Shkurenko, another Jester, who lives across town. Mick, a truck driver who was out of town for the day, had left Karl his keys, trusting without even knowing us. Over the next 2 1/2 days, we lived at Mick's house. There, he cooked our meals and seemed to have no other concern than our comfort. I would like to note that this hospitality was the norm throughout my travels.

Rain rain rain rain...

Our plans to ride to York and around Yorkshire on Monday were thwarted by a downpour. We did get as far as Burnley, 25 miles down the road, but the conditions were so miserable that we decided to bag the day's trip. Instead of riding, we changed into dry clothes back at Mick's and, once the rain let up a little, walked to the Black Horse pub where we ate lunch, had a few pints, and entertained ourselves with off-color jokes. It's amazing how the same joke takes on a different spin on each side of the Atlantic. That evening, we attended the Jesters' club meeting at Greenall's New Ship Inn. After the short meeting, the club went for a ride. Mick offered me a ride on his trike, a home-brewed rocket that mates a 1600 cc VW engine to a Jaguar rear end and whose front wheel is raked out at about a 45 degree angle. Without seatbelts, with the engine roaring, and at 75-80 mph in the straightaways, the ride was, as the Brits would say, "spot-on"! Tuesday morning was sunny and our planned tour of the famous Lake District started off innocently enough. By the end of the day, I had taken more than 75 photographs. We first rode to the Lancaster Castle and Prison (A6). Despite the fact that court was in session and the castle was closed to visitors, Kad's badge got us a cracking tour from the court's chief constable. We saw a thousand years of heraldic devices, the courtrooms, lawyers in their powdered wigs, and the place where condemned prisoners met their fates on the scaffold years ago. In fact, the pavement behind the castle swells slightly, showing where the condemned men were buried after their executions.

Riding In First Gear

We made two more quick stops at Devil's Bridge for breakfast and Lake Windemere (AA683,A65,A591) and then came the most challenging riding and spectacular scenery of my visit. England's Lake District's crystal-blue lakes are nestled between rugged mountains. These mountains are traversed by one lane roads, many too crude to be listed on a map, with more twists than Chubby Checker. The road leading through Wry Nose, Hard Knot and Wasdale passes warns motorists of a 33% grade. The road is so steep that if one were to stall a bike, the bike would not only drop, it would slide down the road. The switchbacks we encountered changed directions every 20 yards, placing a premium on picking and maintaining a good line going up and coming down. Actually, the ascent wasn't so bad; but the descent was another matter entirely! Riding in first gear with very sparing use of the back brake, I found myself exercising extraordinary care to miss the piles of sheep manure while holding a good line so as not to ride off the mountain. The lakes and mountains were beautiful and Steve and I enjoyed ourselves immensely. Karl, on the other hand, was not in such good spirits though he also appreciated the beauty before him. He was suffering a severe allergic reaction to some local pollen that swelled his eyes shut. Also, one of his carburetors began to flutter badly; this was apparent from the smell of gas emanating from his left exhaust pipe. Then, to make matters worse, the wind whistling through the passes blew his bike over not once, but twice. The first spill actually pinned Karl's legs to the ground. Fortunately, Karl was not hurt, in part because he fell in a fresh pile of manure. (Remember, I said it was everywhere!) The only thing bruised was Karl's ego.

More rain rain rain...

My greatest lament was that I put my camera down when I ran to help him. A picture of Karl, pinned by his bike to the ground, would have been well-received by the gentle Jesters. It was definitely not his day. By the time we got through Wasdale Pass, it was 1500 and we had 120 miles to get back to Karl's. He told us that the Jesters were throwing a going-away party for Steve and me though I suspect that any excuse, however small, justifies a Jester party. So a high-speed run down some great winding roads and the M-6 Motorway got us there in short order. It was a wonderful party! For all their bravado, the Jesters are just like the rest of us: almost human. The weather took a turn for the worse on Wednesday. Though we had planned to leave that morning for Wales, it was raining like a heifer urinating on a flat rock. The downpour didn't let up until almost 1400. Steve and I got into our rain gear (I adjusted my braces) and, after sad good-byes to Karl and Colette, pointed our bikes south and boogied.

Originally, we planned to shoot straight back on the motorway; however, the winds were so bad that we exited onto the A494 (and later, A470) and did a high speed run through the stark mountains of North Wales. While our brisk pace kept us just ahead of a storm that was boiling over the mountains, it did not prevent us from enjoying the sunbeams that occasionally broke through the clouds to drench the mountains in a golden light. After almost a week on the road, we were eager to get home. Having ridden about 2000 miles with (i.e., behind) Steve over the preceding 12 days, we had gotten to know and had become comfortable with eac! h other's riding style and capabilities. (Steve is an exceptional rider.) It was particular fun running at about 70 mph with me one second behind Steve and to his left.

Happy Fourth Of July

We arrived at Steve's house at 2100 thoroughly exhilarated by the great scenery of the day and the thrill of brisk precision riding. I fell into bed, exhausted and pleased that the trip had gone so well; but I was also saddened by the fact that the morrow, July the fourth, would be my last full day in the UK. My last waking thoughts were how to arrange an equally enjoyable tour of the eastern US in October when Steve comes to Virginia to ride with me. Thursday was a blur: a visit to the local motorcycle shop to buy some t-shirts, the Newport shopping center to buy gifts for family and friends, and afternoon tea at the Wheatsheaf. At this local pub, the first I had visited on the 22nd, I was surprised to see an American flag (albeit with only 48 stars) tacked to the wall. The locals wished me a happy Fourth and then launched into an animated debate about whether there are 50 or 51 states in the Union. The folks there made me feel very welcome and even invited me to play a game of boule, a French bowling game. To the great chagrin of my host, I was exceptionally lucky.

After a long walk with Steve and his friend, Maria, down a quiet country lane, it was off to an Indian restaurant for three-alarm curry dishes with Roger and Pat who joined us for the evening. It was difficult to say farewell at 2200 to such nice people who had become such good friends in such a short time. Within 7 hours, I was on my way to London's Gat! wick airport with Steve and Maria. As difficult as it was to say good-bye to Roger and Pat a few hours earlier, it was infinitely more difficult to say good-bye to a man who had become a great friend. Where did those two weeks go? My trip was the adventure of a lifetime. I rode about 2000 miles in 13 days; met wonderfully kind and gracious people; made good friends; saw great scenery; became a more proficient rider; and got a snootful of history and culture to boot. And, excluding airfare, I did it for the ridiculously low sum of $4001 This must-do vacation is within the reach of any rider with an adventurous spirit. If you don't have two motorcycles, buy a second for a month or so and have a blast. Maybe you'll see Steve and me this October in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania Dutch country, the Jersey Pine Barrens, New York City, or the Skyline Drive/Blue Ridge Parkway. Or maybe I'll bump into you next year in New Zealand. For all our sakes, I hope so.

John M. Weinstein