September 12 – 14, 2025
Motorcycle Trip
Good stories never start with reasonable ideas. This is no exception. I had finished graduate school earlier that year and had great ambitions to experience some adventure before joining “The Workforce”.1 Several ideas came to mind: A long distance through hike, or perhaps an epic road trip, maybe even travel to a few other countries? But I did know for sure that I could not simply let the time pass me by. If I did, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
Motivated by Ed March’s C90 Adventures, I was very interested in doing a long-haul motorcycle adventure. In fact, he was my main motivation to obtain a motorcycle license in the first place. In particular, I was interested in doing the trans-america trail2, also known as TAT. In the months leading up to my graduation, I had been funneling income into my adventure fund, a savings account dedicated to embezzling money out of my food budget and into the pocket of outdoor gear, scuba and motorcycle gear manufacturers. I ran the numbers, and they looked good.
But there was one problem… I’ve been camping a handful of times, and never on a motorcycle. I was unfamiliar with the logistics. There was gear to acquire, even though I did not want to overdo it. And then there was the matter of planning a 5000 mile long off-road adventure, on a 250 cc bike. Oh, and of course you have to get back!
So, I shelved the idea. I know, that’s not what readers of this blog want. Stories of pushing on in spite of adversity are so much more satisfying, but at this point, I had a job lined up and people whose regular presence in my life (and mine in theirs) were important, and the idea of disappearing for three months on what would amount to a 12,000 mile journey (I mapped it out) seemed more and more unrealistic. I changed plans.
My new plan was to follow the Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine sections of the North-East Backcountry Discovery Route into Canada, where I would meet with my girlfriend. I planned out a journey for 7 days, which gave me a day of flexibility. The plan was to travel from Worcester, MA, where I was located at the time, to the start of the BDR on the VT border, and then follow it north. I got the supplies I needed, loaded them up on my faithful Suzi,3 and hit the road.
Day 1: Worcester, Ma to Readsboro, Vt
The day was here, it was time to go. I’d been itching for this moment for weeks, and yet, I felt unsure. I was certain I had forgotten something. There was something I had to do, or bring. By the time I was sure I was ready, it was going on 2 pm, and I knew I would need to get going to find a place to sleep by the end of daylight.
My first destination was Shelburne Falls, Ma, west of Greenfield. where I would reorient and make further plans. The beginning of the trip was familiar terrain, having spent a lot of time previously exploring on the bike. Further out, I’d explored some areas of western Massachusetts through a few climbing outings, but I never got to see many of the back roads and, even more regrettably, never had been able to make the time and get out west towards the Berkshires. I rode through lush green forests with a hint of fall colors in the brilliant afternoon sun through old mill towns basking in their past glory and at the cusp of a gentrified renaissance. Glimpses between the trees showed beautiful lakes that would have made for great swimming, if they had not all been designated public water supplies. The miles went by smoothly, with a bit more traffic than I would have preferred.
I passed through Greenfield and found my way to Shelburne Falls, where I stopped in the hopes of finding a place to eat and figuring out where I would sleep that night. It was already going on 5 pm and I had about an hour and a half of daylight left. Unfortunately, all the restaurants were closed, but I found a little market where I bought dinner and breakfast for the morning and then opend my navigation to find a place to camp. There was some dispersed camping north of Readsboro, which looked doable, so I saddled back up and made my way along the Deerfield river in golden hour. This is when the gravity of the trip started kicking. The music was just right and I was gliding towards something big. On the way, I had intended to stop at the marker for the border to Vermont, but I missed it. By the time I started wondering where it was, I already was entering Readsboro. Finally, I was back in Vermont.
In fact, I would find out just how back in Vermont I was. I stopped in front of the historic Readsboro Inn to navigate my next steps to the George D Aiken Wilderness, where I was planning to camp, when a guy came up to me and started asking me where I was coming from. “Woostah” I said. He asked how long I had been traveling already. “Just today.” We stumbled our way through a friendly, but awkward conversation. The reason for which would soon be apparent: “I am high as balls”, said my conversation partner. Ah, Vermont. “Have fun with that. See ya”. He walked off, probably to find the closest Phish concert., and I got back on my bike and followed the beautiful stretch of Route Ahunnerd to get to my campsite.
About half an hour later I was at the entrance of the George D Aiken wilderness and started following the dirt road into the forest. Online reports mentioned dispersed campsites along the road at several intervals. What they did not mention was that on a beautiful fall evening like this one, they would all be occupied. Woops. But not to worry, I’ll just keep going. I followed the road until I go to the very end of the road, marked by a large gate across the path, and found that there was just enough space to park my bike and hitch up my hammock between two trees. By now it was dark, but I was exhilarated. Just this morning I had no idea where I was going to sleep and somehow, it had all worked out. I collected some wood for my fire box stove, and made myself some dinner, before reading with my head torch before retiring under the stars.
Day 2: Readsboro, Vt to Woodstock, Vt.
It was a fitful sleep. I’m not sure why, but I was not able to calm my mind. The closest I got was that I closed my eyes and opened them to the morning light. Ah yes! This is an Adventure! And suddenly I was alert and ready to get going. I lit my stove to start making some coffee4 and began packing up my things. By now, I had now also learned that if I have a choice between the bag bungeed to the bike and my backpack, the heavy stuff should go into the bag on the bike. The effort to repack paid off almost instantly. Soon, I was ready to hit the road. I made my way back down the road that had just hours before led me deeper to uncertainty. Now, however, uncertainty did not seem at all like a bad thing. Excited to see where the day would take me, I turned right on VT 9 and made my way to Wilmington, a beautiful little Vermont town with a fantastic little cafe, to get some breakfast and charge my devices. Over a scone and a cappuccino, I planned out the route I was going to take. So far, I had only followed a few short sections of the actual BDR. Today it was time to change that. As much as I enjoyed sitting in the cafe, I was itching to move. I stopped at the next gas station to fuel up (4$) and then, I was on my way.
The first stretch of the day followed the Deerfield River into the Green Mountain National Forrest. A wide dirt road with beautiful scenery. This was the life. Clearly, I was not the only one who had picked out this weekend to spend playing outside. I waved to all sorts of campers as I passed by their chosen homes. As I followed this stretch, a mild euphoria overcame me. I was really doing it. I could not believe how lucky I was, but a small part of me also wanted to be able to share these moments with others. We often hear about stories of people seeking solitude in the mountains or the wilderness. In fact, I often describe myself as enjoying being places where people usually aren’t. But the challenge is that even with videos and blogs and pictures and vivid descriptions, you cannot transplant the feeling or experience into someone else. You need to share it in the moment. At the time, I could not really name the feeling of melancholy that underlined the joy of traveling, but it did make me think of the famous Chris McCandles quote: “Happiness is only real when shared.”
Before long, I had navigated my way through the dirt roads and solitude of the Green Mountain National Forest. Up ahead were more quaint Vermont towns of the greatest kind. From Stratton, I found my way past Newfane and Brookline, where I took this awesome picture:
Then the trail took me up through Athens and into Grafton. This portion of the ride was incredibly beautiful and it felt like it would never end. The bike loved the dirt and I loved waving at people and them waving back. I felt like a guest and not a tourist. In Grafton I stopped at a general store for some lunch and to do some more charging. I figured I should also let my people know how things were going. This was also the first time that I saw evidence of other motorcyclists doing what I was planning to do. This was after all a well established motorcycle route. As I was leaving the store, ready for the next bit of the journey, a group had accumulated outside, ready to get their lunch. They were on large bikes, well equipped with machines that were more than capable of handling what this trail could throw at them. I found them intimidating, but they were very friendly. And I might be mistaken, but maybe I even saw a glimmer of awe in their eyes that someone would dare to do this trip on a 250?
From Grafton the trail went on to Londonberry, though not on the direct route of course.
The dirt road followed a lovely stretch of the Branch Williams River. As I was enjoying the forest around me, I came upon a few guys in trucks trying to pull out another truck which had slid off the embankment and come to rest against a tree. Not being able to offer much help, I stopped, exchanged a few words and rode on. The truck driver got lucky. There was a pretty steep drop to the river and I am sure that a similar accident without a tree to stop the slide could have gone very differently. I made a mental note that I should under no circumstances follow his lead, lest I prove my own hypothesis. I guess this is as good a time to address this point as any. Riding a motorcycle is inherently dangerous. For those who have never been on one it may seem near suicidal. Likewise, I am convinced that many who get on a bike feel invincible, a condition which fate has a tendency to correct. Sometimes permanently. I find that choosing to get on a motorcycle does bring me face to face with the fact that life is fragile. It makes me face my own mortality. I would not call it scary, but it is humbling. Riding safely means to critically evaluate the conditions around you and scan for hazards. It also requires critically evaluating yourself to make sure you are still good to ride. Knowing when to take a break is critical. When I learned to ride a snowboard, the instructor told us that we would know we were getting tired when we stared falling more. On a motorcycle it is the same way. You start riding sloppy and you don’t pay attention. Ideally, you should be off the road long before you reach that point.
Luckily, I had not timeline to fulfill so I was able to take frequent breaks, like stopping in Londonberry to get some hot apple cider. By now it was the early afternoon and I would have to start thinking about how far I wanted to make it today. I decided I would try and make it to Woodstock. There were a few “Experts only” sections that I wanted to test my hand on. After finishing my cider while I was getting back on the bike, I had another interesting conversation with a local who recommended I should look into the “Puppy Dog Route”, a dual sport route that goes through Vermont up to Canada. I said I’d look into it. And I meant that.
So on I went. I left Londonberry and headed west following VT 11 towards Manchester Center. The official map said that the section through the Robert T Stafford White Rocks National Recreation Area was closed, and I unfortunately believed it. (I accidentally ended up getting lost and following that exact route which was in fact not closed, the opposite way for a good bit. It was unfortunately both fun to ride and also gorgeous. I was not mad that I went the wrong way, rather I was mad I hadn’t gone that way in the first place.) Instead, there was a bit of highway driving which is my least favorite way to go. I got off as soon as I could to follow the local roads instead. After a brief fuel stop in Danby and some more very friendly locals, I opted to ride the first class IV5 highway “Experts only section”. And I was quickly humbled. It was, in fact, difficult just like they said and quickly pushed my off-road riding skills and the bike to the limit. I discovered that Suzi had little ground clearance and she was rather heavy (No offense). Several spots required me to stop to scout and carefully consider which line I should follow. It was great fun and the sense of accomplishment was huge when I finally made it through.
It was now the middle of the afternoon and I sill had a good bit of riding ahead of me, as well as the option to complete two more experts only sections. The first was near Mount Holly. Here, I was introduced to the concept of large, loose rocks that could pop out from under my tire. I also was introduced to mud, which is slippery (what a surprise). But again I made it through and I had a blast. From there, I turned back onto Route Ahunnerd towards Bridgewater before turning off onto a road that led into the Arthur Davis Wildlife Management Area, a haven for 4x4s and offroaders. By now it was going on 5 pm, the light was gorgeous and my phone battery was running low. I was already seeing myself feasting in a restaurant in Woodstock and camping at the nearby campsite. I followed the dirt roads which turned rocky very quickly. They were great fun but challenging to ride and required a lot of attention, throttle- and more importantly, clutch discipline. The trail would often dip down and then roll up a slab of angled rock or follow step formations that required a attention identify and follow a good line. I was at the bottom of one of those slab formations when I lost my balance. The bike revved loudly before going silent and I found myself lying on my side. The slab was angled differently than I had expected and I had toppled over. I was uninjured -I hadn’t been going fast- and managed to get the bike back up, which was tricky on the angled slap. Surveying the damage, I found that the FI light was flashing (The manual describes this as “Have the bike serviced immediately”), the left mirror was freely rotating in its socket in a rather limp fashion and the clutch lever was hanging down at an angle that, if an arm were displaying such deformity, would prompt a rapid visit to a hospital with an X-Ray machine.
Shit.
So I was in the middle of no where, on a challenging trail with a dying phone, two hours of daylight left and a broken clutch lever. But it could have been worse. I wasn’t hurt, and I had enough supplies to last me a few days, if the need arose. Once I had collected myself, I tried the ignition. Nothing. Upon further inspection I found that the clutch lever actuates a button that tells the ECU that the clutch is pulled and permits ignition. I racked my brain. I had a supply of tools, and some duct tape. But to my disappointment, even duct tape could not reattach my clutch lever to the necessary degree. However, I found that if I held the lever in just the right way I could pivot the lever and actuate the clutch. In fact, I could even activate the switch and start the bike. Phiew. Time to put the bike in gear and… it stalled. Great. Try again. Start, get in gear carefully, start rolling, navigate the next obstacle, feather the clutch… Oh right. Stalled again. Start the bike. Get in gear. Guess I am doing the rest of this trail in first gear now. And so I did. For the next hour, I rode the trail which had been tricky with a functioning bike in first gear. I didn’t care about getting out quick, but I knew that stopping would be a problem. Navigating the trail uphill was fine, I was going slow enough that I could find my way through the tricky sections, but downhill was harder. There were several steps where the line only came into view shortly before I got there. Since I could not stop, I had to commit early. On one such occasion, the drop was further than expected, I cursed my low ground clearance as I bottomed out and felt the rear break lever push up against my right foot. The bike sputtered and stalled.
Shit.
Upon inspection (again), a rock had bent the rear break lever so that it was now permanently pulling the rear break. Furthermore, the lever portion was bent up and out, making the riding position awkward. Luckily, I was able to loosen the rear break rod so that the break wasn’t engaged. I could still activate it, but I decided not to push it. To my chagrin, I also found that my break light was now permanently on. I managed to start the bike again and hobbled my way down towards Bridgewater. Once I made it to more navigable terrain, I experimented with switching gears. It worked. If I was careful I could still work the clutch. Feathering had been the problem. With the ability to test these features, and having really no other choice, I rebuilt my confidence to ride the 20 minutes from Bridgewater to Woodstock.
Aside from the recent troubles, this ride was actually very enjoyable, though I admit I was not that receptive to them. While on the road I was cautiously scoping out spots where I might be able to get a bed that night. Afterall, after everything I’d gone through, I felt like I had earned it. In Woodstock, I found a gas station and some super glue. I disassembled the clutch lever, glued it back together and, to my surprise, found that it held, for now. I checked the Inn across the street to see if they had a room free (which I knew I’d pay an arm and a leg for), but they were booked. So I decided to head to a restaurant, eat some food and investigate some options. All rooms in the area were either full or hideously expensive, so I decided to head to the Ottauquechee campsite 20 minutes east of Woodstock. Their website said that this campsite had plenty of space and that it was supervised. At least I would not be all by myself in a dark forest that night.
I got there just as it got dark and had a very apologetic park ranger explain to me that they had just that very day had an unprecedented number of walk-in campers who, just like me had on a whim decided to camp at this very campground, and that they were sorry but you cannot just hang up a hammock between the trees somewhere and you could go to the Mt Ascutney Campground just 45 minutes south of here and find a spot there.
Not wanting to undo half of my day’s hard-won progress, I opted instead to head 45 minutes back west towards Bridgewater and into the Coolidge State forest, where dispersed camping was permitted. I turned onto a dark, dirt road and headed into the forest before parking my bike, making a fire in my stove and hanging up my hammock. It was 9 pm and I was done. I had decided I would not make any big decisions about the future of this journey that night. I knew I was frazzled and exhausted. Any decisions could wait until the morning after a good night’s sleep. The fire was my companion for a few hours and keeping it fed gave me something to focus on instead of ruminating. I also was treated to a pair of eyes staring at me from a distance, reflecting the light from my head torch. When I looked across the dirt path, I could see the dew drops in the grass reflecting the light, like a thousand twinkly stars. Upon closer investigation, they were not dew drops, but thousands of spider eyes, eight to a spider.6 So there I was, all by myself in a dark forest, with only the mystery eyes and spiders to keep me company. Before too long, I let the fire burn out and turned in for the night. The only redeeming factor of that night was that I was so exhausted that I slept like a rock.
Day 3: Woodstock, Vt to Worcester, Ma
I awoke to the warm rays of sun in the crisp air. I had slept well, but was keenly aware of my situation in the Morning. I forewent the coffee this time, wanting nothing more than getting back to civilization. Instead, I packet up my things while giving my solar charger the chance to collect at least a few milliamperes from the sun, before getting on the bike. Once everything was packet up I went to start the bike and… nothing. I could not believe my luck. The fuel pump would not even engage when I turned the key. Luckily I was on an incline so I decided to try and bump start the bike. She sputtered a bit and finally got going. I’m still not quite sure what happened, but I have since found that she doesn’t like to be left in gear overnight. Seems like the incline was both the problem and the solution that morning.
I made my way back out of the woods, once again marveling at how different everything seems in daylight. My plan was to head back to Woodstock for some breakfast and to plan out the future of this trip. I just had to get there. I was moving for about two minutes when the clutch lever broke off again. At least now I had some experience riding with it busted, so I limped into town. Both Suzi and I must have been a pretty sorry sight. I parked the bike, happy that it was a Sunday and parking was free, and stepped foot into a peculiar little coffee shop called Dreamscape Coffee. Imagine a parlor from the late 1800s and make it goth and also a coffee shop. That comes close. There are plenty of coffee shops that over complicate something as simple as coffee7, but you could tell that these guys took pride in their craft. Even more importantly, you could tell that this shop was part of the community. Most patrons were greated by name and received “The Usual” and I was welcomed warmly and with no pity. Turns out the barista also used to ride. This coffee shop felt like a safe haven while I contemplated my next steps.
What was I to do? It was pretty clear that I would not be able to continue the next 5 days on a busted clutch. Even if I could, the episode with my bike not starting had shaken my confidence. I had gotten lucky this time, but what if this happened again when I was in the middle of no where in Maine? I had friends in Burlington. I could make it up there in a few hours and crash while I wait for a new clutch lever to arrive. Or maybe there was a dealership that had one? In the end though, I had to come to terms with what I already knew: The trip was over. I have a principle that I can push myself, my gear, or the route, but never all three. I had gotten to a point where I was doing exactly that, and it had gotten me in trouble. I had gotten lucky this time, but I did not want to stick around to find out what happens when it runs out. And so, I charted the route home.
The route back would be about 100 miles, paralleling Interstate 91 before cutting through New Hampsire, past Keene and back down into Massachusetts. However, turning back did not mean that I had to take the fastest or most boring ride back home. In fact, that day would feature a lot of good riding. Before I headed out, I stopped by the hardware store to find some JB Weld in the hopes of mending the clutch lever long enough to get me home. Several attempts were made and, due to the >6 hour setting time of the JB weld, a comical amount of dis- and reassembly of the clutch lever were required before I settled for the super glue from the night before.
The super glue almost bought me a few miles before the lever broke again, but it was enough to rebuild my confidence to chart a way home that would take me on some pretty dirt roads heading south, towards Bellows Falls. By the time the lever broke off againg, I had learned to use the clutch even in its broken state without issue. The only change was that I now permanently held it to make sure it did not fall off while I was speeding down the road (The musculoskeletal price was one I would have to pay the next few days). I followed the roads south, finding freedom in deciding my own route as I went, and came across some spectacular views.
What amazed me the most was Mt Ascutney, towering in front of me. I’d lived in Vermont for four years and had driven up and down I-91 more times than I can count, but I’d never seen this mountain tower ahead of me like that. My map tempted me with a class IV highway passing in between Mt Ascutny and Pierson Peak, but I had learned my lesson the hard way and stuck to the safer roads, which were no less scenic. Not ready to leave Vermont yet, I opted to continue south towards Springfield, hoping I could find some lunch there. Sadly, I was thoroughly disappointed. I’m sure Springfield has its places, but every place was closed, so I stopped at a Dunkin’ Donuts along a particularly sad looking stretch of major road next to some abandoned-looking industrial plant. Again, I am sure that Springfield is wonderful, but I was simply not receptive to it.
From Springfield, the ride down to Bellows Falls and then New Hampshire was not too exciting, not to say anticlimactic. Single lane roads at 50 mph, with traffic that invokes the awareness of mortality I described above. The ride down from the Massachusetts Border could have been exciting and interesting on another day, but at this point I was exhausted and just wanted to get home. I rode on, admonishing myself whenever I noticed that my riding was getting sloppy, like when I missed a pothole or shifted at an awkward time. Before too long, I was on the final stretch and back on the familiar roads.
The trip counter that I had zeroed when I left ticked to 499 miles as I pulled into the driveway. It was hard to believe I had only been gone for two nights. In the brilliant afternoon sun, I got off the bike and pulled her into the garage. I swear that at the very moment I pulled in, it started pouring out of buckets. The clouds had decided that enough was enough and made up for the pristine weather I had had during the whole trip with a vengeance. Even with the rain, the sun was still shining, and I was certain I could have found a rainbow if I had been in the right spot. Inside me, there was sunshine and rain as well. As I sat in my room and looked out of the window, contemplating everything I had experienced, I couldn’t help but feel like there had been someone watching over me.
Maybe I had not gotten where I had planned to go, but in a way, I got way more than I bargained for. I had experienced a true adventure, experienced many new places, was humbled, and discovered that I was resilient. I was satisfied with the decision I made and happy that I’d been able to learn the hard lessons close to home rather than being thousands of miles away. I’m wiser now for having experienced this trip…
…and I can’t wait to do do it again.
- Dun Dun Dun ↩︎
- And still am ↩︎
- Which I had equipped with some knobby tires ↩︎
- Coffee made in the woods over a fire is the best and you can’t change my mind. ↩︎
- Meaning unmaintained. Some of these date back to important through-ways of the colonial era. ↩︎
- I am being dramatic here. I actually thought it was kind of cool. ↩︎
- If you need more than two words to describe what you want, it’s too much ↩︎