Two Wheels Across America
Author Bio:
Russ Segalov living near London, U.K.
Semi-retired now having been working in the IT industry for many years, and now enjoy being able to plan and take time off to do motorbike trips abroad and in the UK on and off tarmac. I was 27 years old when I took the decision to sell everything I owned, and set off to do some travelling in 1988, starting with Australia. After 6 months in a camper van and travelling over 20k miles, I decided the US was my next destination and flew into L.A where this story begins.
California Beginnings & Desert Adventures
Six a.m. at Los Angeles airport, stuck in a customs queue behind several South American flights. I knew this was going to be a problem.
Three and a half hours later, I was still in line. What I did not expect was the grilling I got from the customs officer; a lady who was one step away from sending me back to Australia. Had it not been for my American Express card, I probably would have been on the next flight out. And that was just the start of my chaotic day in L.A, as fourteen hours later, I would find myself staring down two cops; both with guns drawn.
I made my way to a youth hostel on Venice Beach, where I met two young Norwegians. They had just bought a car and were offering a ride to anyone interested. First mistake? Saying yes. Off we went, heading straight for a beer store to stock up on beer and a tourist map of L.A. We spent hours cruising the city, neon lights blurring past as darkness settled over Hollywood Hills and me getting more and more tipsy. The further we drove, the bigger the houses got. So did the security gates.
Just as I was about to suggest heading back, the car lit up like a Christmas tree; red and blue lights flashing in the mirrors. A siren whooped behind us. “Whatever you do, don’t get out of the car,” I said, remembering every American cop show I had ever seen. We rolled to a stop. My heart pounded as I glanced at the Norwegians, their faces frozen in panic. Then, a sharp voice cut through the night. “Hands where we can see them! One by one, step out of the vehicle.” I swallowed hard. As I climbed out, my thumb got caught in the door. Pain shot through my hand, and before I knew it, I was hopping around, cursing. Then I saw them. Two cops. Two guns. Both pointed at me. I froze. The cold night air suddenly felt razor-sharp against my skin. The officers, tense and ready, barked commands I barely registered.
“ID. Now.” With trembling hands, we fished out our passports. The moment they saw United Kingdom and Norway, their stance softened; just a little.
One officer sighed, rubbing his temple. “You boys lost?” We nodded. Hard. To our surprise, instead of a night in jail, we got a police escort; straight back to Venice Beach. Maybe they figured we would find a way into worse trouble if left to our own devices.
For the past six months, I had been traveling around Australia in a 1961 VW Kombi van. Now, I wanted something different; two wheels instead of four. The obvious choice? A Harley. The smart choice? A Yamaha FZ700. Reliable, easy to fix, and as it turned out; one hell of a lucky pick. In 17,000 miles, it never broke down once.
Armed with an American Youth Hostel guide, a Rand McNally map, a small rucksack, leather jacket and a helmet; I hit the road. No real plan; just a vague idea that Vegas sounded like a good starting point. First stop: a roadside diner. I was starving. As soon as I walked in, I noticed something. Cops. The place was packed with them. The only empty seat? A barstool at the counter, with a highway patrolman’s hat resting on it; right between two officers. I hesitated, then picked up the hat and held it up. Raised an eyebrow. The cop on the left gave me a hard look. “That’s my hat.” I nodded, handed it to him, and sat down. Silence. Then I ordered a coffee. The waitress poured it, and the cop next to me finally spoke. “You aren’t from around here.” The moment they heard my accent, the mood shifted. The “crazy Brit” factor kicked in, and suddenly, I was entertaining an audience. They bombarded me with questions; where I was from, what I was riding, why the hell I was alone. I laughed, answered, and before I knew it, I had a list of must-visit places.
Back on the road, the miles stretched endlessly ahead. The straight, flat highways seemed to go on forever, heatwaves shimmering on the asphalt. By the time I hit 280 miles, every inch of me felt raw; my arse was on fire. Pulling into the Vegas hostel, I heard the rumble of another bike rolling up beside me. It was an Enduro, the rider cloaked in a long, dust-covered Driza-Bone Stockman coat; not exactly standard motorbike gear. He flipped up his visor, grinned, and with a thick Australian accent, said: “G ’day, mate! Nice bike.” I burst out laughing. And just like that, another chapter of the journey had begun.
He had just flown in from Oz, bought the bike, and was spending five weeks touring the U.S. before selling it and heading home; something he had done for years. After an uneventful night in Vegas (for once, no cops), we decided to travel together. His destination? Colorado. I had no real plan, so I was happy to tag along. The only problem? He was camping. And I had zero gear. Still, sleeping in a one-man tent, wearing every piece of clothing I owned, was an experience I will not forget. For me, the journey really started once we left Vegas, hitting the National Parks.
Riding through the Grand Canyon on two wheels was a different experience altogether. You could smell the trees, feel the air change, and truly take in the open expanse. Approaching Monument Valley, we hit rainfall of biblical proportions. I had never been so wet or cold on a bike; before or since. We took shelter for two days in a motel, where I decided waterproof gear was a must. A quick stop at a sporting goods store got me a bright yellow set of oilskins; ugly as hell, but functional. And highly visible. Given how bad U.S. drivers were, that was a bonus.
Finding Home in Durango
For a week, we rode through Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, and Arches National Parks before reaching Durango, Colorado; his final stop. I had heard plenty about Durango’s rich history; railways, mining, old western towns. What I had not heard about? The guns. Riding into Durango, I noticed something. Nearly every man was carrying a gun.
With its wooden buildings and the occasional horse trotting down the street, it felt like the Wild West. Arriving at the Hostel it was an odd sort of place, with two old cabins one half had obviously had a big fire sometime in the past, I met Dave; the man running the place. He looked like he had walked straight out of the desert. Tall. Wiry. Piercing blue eyes. His leathery skin hinted at a thousand desert suns, his scruffy silver-streaked beard adding to the mystery. “Welcome to Durango,” he said. His tone was neutral, but his eyes carried an unspoken warning: “Be cool, or I’ll break your neck.” I just did not know yet that my journey was about to take another unexpected turn…
After booking in, he showed us around, and as it turned out, he was the most laid-back person I had met in a long time. Later, Dave organized a BBQ for us and a few other hostel guests. It was a perfect evening; sitting by the fire, munching on burgers, sipping beer, and gazing up at the stars with the mountains all around. I spent most of the evening talking to Dave, learning about his past and how he ended up running the hostel. He was a Vietnam Vet who, like many others, had been ignored by society when he returned home and was left to fend for himself. He had been running the hostel for six years straight without a break and was desperate for a holiday. When I asked why he hadn’t taken one, he simply replied, “Because I can’t find anybody I trust to run it.” Out of nowhere, I said, “I’ll run it for you.” I had no idea why I thought he would trust me; I had just met him, and I was a foreigner. He looked at me for a moment and asked, “Do you fish?” I laughed. “Yeah… badly.” He grinned. “Alright, we’ll go fishing tomorrow.”
The next morning, I hopped into Dave’s car; a massive white Cadillac convertible that rumbled like distant thunder and floated over the road like a cloud. With the top down, the wind whipped past as we cruised toward Vallecito Dam, a breathtakingly serene spot, completely deserted except for us. The lake shimmered under the midday sun, pine trees stretching endlessly along the shore. We spent the entire day fishing, drinking beer, and talking about anything and everything; work, war, politics, and even whether UFOs were real. It was only later that I realised this casual chat had been a day-long interview for the job of running the hostel; something I had completely forgotten about.
As the sun dipped behind the mountains, we packed up with our haul of rainbow trout. That is when Dave casually dropped, “Alright, I think I can trust you to run the hostel. I will be leaving in a couple of days.” As we drove back to the hostel, I asked how long he would be gone for and he said about three weeks, as he wanted to see some of his old army buddies who were living in caves in Mexico. Of course, they were living in caves in Mexico how silly of me!!! Back at the hostel, I found my riding buddy and filled him in on the unexpected twist in my journey. Our paths were now splitting; he was on a deadline to get back to LA, but he was thrilled for me. That night, I filleted the trout, flash-fried it with soy sauce, and served it up with rice and salad; a simple but perfect meal, washed down with more beer.
The next few weeks settled into an easy rhythm. I learned the ropes; doing the books, handling check-ins and check-outs, and even persuading guests to do their share of hoovering and cleaning (most of them, anyway). Since the hostel was a mid-way stop for cross-country travellers, I met a revolving door of characters, each with their own stories, tips on must-visit places, and even invitations to look them up when passing through; some of which I took them up on. Food was sorted, too. I quickly figured out that offering $5 all-you-can-eat burgers and beer covered my own meals and left me with some extra cash. It was a win-win, and the guests loved it.
With all my free time, I explored the area on my bike; Mesa Verde National Park, where I dived into the ancient Pueblo culture, the gold rush towns of Telluride and Silverton, and plenty of hidden backroads. Three weeks passed. Then four. No sign of Dave. I was not too concerned at first; he was probably just taking his time. But as week five turned into week six, I started wondering if he was ever coming back. Maybe this was a trap. Maybe this was one of those places where you take over, and then you are stuck until you find your next unlucky replacement; like a real-life version of the Eagles’ song: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”
Then, one lazy afternoon, as I dozed in a hammock with a beer in hand, I heard a deep, familiar rumble rolling up the driveway. I cracked an eye open. The Cadillac. Dave was back. I strolled over as he climbed out, grinning ear to ear. “Well, at least the place didn’t burn down.” I smiled. “What, the other half you mean? Where the hell have you been? It has been six weeks!” His face was priceless; pure shock. “No way! I lost track of time.” Turns out, he had been having such a good time with his buddies that he had completely forgotten how long he had been gone.
As much as I loved my time in Durango, I knew it was time to move on. I had months, maybe years, of travel ahead, and my notebook was now filled with tips and contacts from travellers passing through. Saying goodbye to Dave was not easy, but I knew I would be back someday. And sure enough, a year later, I swung by for a couple of days. Nothing had changed. Same Dave, same hostel, same laid-back magic. And it felt just like coming home.
Southwestern Odyssey
Leaving Durango behind, I set out for Santa Fe, choosing backroads over monotonous highway miles. The rhythmic clunk-clunk of long, straight roads was mind-numbing; I craved the twists and turns of the less-travelled routes. The only drawback? Fewer fuel stations. The map marked them, but I was about to learn that not all of them existed. I made a detour to the Great Sand Dunes National Park, a surreal sight; vast golden dunes surrounded by mountains. Walking up the dunes, the sand burned hot underfoot, the wind sculpting ripples in the endless waves of sand. After soaking in the view, I rode on toward Taos, drawn by its reputation for vibrant art. That is when the fuel started getting alarmingly low. Two abandoned, tumbleweed-strewn stations mocked me as I passed. The engine began to sputter as I finally coasted; running on fumes; into a working station in Arroyo Honda, relieved to have made it by the skin of my teeth.
Approaching Santa Fe, I kept scanning for the skyline, but all I saw were trees. It was not until I reached downtown that I realized why; I was surrounded by buildings, but they were all perfectly camouflaged. No structure was more than 35 feet high, and everything was painted in earthy shades of brown, blending seamlessly into the landscape. The uniformity gave the town a warm, almost timeless feel. I spent a few days wandering Santa Fe’s crooked streets, soaking up the creative energy. The town was alive with art; paintings, sculptures, intricate jewellery; and a deep-rooted history that made every adobe corner feel like it had a story to tell.
Next stop: Albuquerque; just in time for a proper rodeo. It was chaos and skill in equal measure, cowboys gripping bucking broncos, the crowd roaring with every fall and triumph. The dust, the sweat, the sheer spectacle of it all made it unforgettable.
From there, I turned southeast toward Carlsbad, but I could not pass up the chance to detour through Roswell; ground zero for UFO mania. The town did not disappoint. Every diner, shop, and local seemed obsessed with aliens, and it was impossible to eat lunch without someone bringing up “what really happened” in 1947. It was part fascinating, part ridiculous; but undeniably entertaining. Carlsbad, by contrast, was a sleepy little town; a much-needed break from the extraterrestrial hysteria. The real draw, though, was the Carlsbad Caverns. At dusk, I joined a small group gathered around a massive black hole in the ground, where a park ranger explained the nightly spectacle we were about to witness. A few bats flitted out, then more, then suddenly; an unstoppable torrent. For fifteen minutes, millions of bats streamed into the night sky, forming a swirling, shifting cloud before vanishing into the horizon. I decided to return at dawn. The ranger had mentioned that few people ever watched the bats come back, but she promised it was just as mesmerizing. She was right. At sunrise, it was just me and another ranger, standing in the still morning air. One by one, then in waves, the bats began their return, diving back into the cavern’s depths like a living river in reverse; millions of tiny bodies disappearing into the darkness below. It was like watching someone stuff the genie back into the bottle.
I needed a big breakfast that morning. I had a long, dull day ahead; 500 miles of straight highway to Austin. My arse was not looking forward to it either. Just in case things got unbearable, I had picked up a cheap blow-up pillow. Not exactly luxury, but better than nothing. The ride was, as expected, mind-numbingly boring. Miles of the same scenery, the same road, the same nothingness. About halfway through, the pillow came into play, offering temporary relief; though it also earned me a few strange looks from passing drivers. I must have looked ridiculous, hovering a good six inches above my seat like some sort of levitating idiot. As I finally reached Austin, ready to get off the bike and regain feeling in my backside, things took a terrifying turn. At the freeway exit, I caught movement in my peripheral vision; a small car swerving across two lanes straight at me. Time slowed. I yanked the handlebars to the right, barely keeping the bike upright as the car brushed my leg. My horn blared under the death grip of my thumb, the car skidded to a stop behind me. Fear turned to fury. Still shaking, I pulled over, ripped off my helmet, and turned to unleash hell; only to be met with two women jumping out of the car, screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over. Then the tears started. It must have hit them; they could have killed me. The driver, sobbing, grabbed my arm. “I am so sorry I did not see you! ” I exhaled sharply, trying to slow my heartbeat. “I’m still alive,” I muttered, more to myself than them. “It’s over.” They calmed down a little after that, probably because I was not screaming at them. Maybe my accent threw them off too. After a few deep breaths, they started asking me where I was from, where I was headed; like the hard shoulder of a freeway was the perfect place for small talk.
“Look, maybe this isn’t the best spot for a chat,” I said, gesturing at the speeding traffic. One of them nodded quickly. “We want to buy you a drink,” she blurted out. “I need to check into my hostel first.” “Meet us later; we will buy you dinner instead.” She rattled off the name of a restaurant in town. I half expected it to be made up, a way to make themselves feel better before disappearing forever. Eventually, I found my hostel, checked in, and asked about the restaurant. Turns out, it was real; and supposedly pretty good. So, curiosity (and hunger) got the better of me, and I headed into town.
Austin on a Friday night was mental. College students flooded the streets, bars overflowed, music blasted from every corner. When I walked into the restaurant, the two women spotted me instantly and went nuts, dragging me over to their table like we were long-lost friends. Over dinner, I learned they worked at some medieval reenactment centre just outside Austin. Before I knew it, they were insisting I visit the next day. Why not? This trip was all about the unexpected. The next morning, they picked me up and drove me out to what looked like a fully reconstructed 16th-century English village, deep in the woods. Thatched-roof cottages, wooden market stalls, and people in full period costume; it was surreal. I got talking to some knight in armour who on hearing my accent offered me a job there and then, but I politely declined and explained I was travelling. I just had thoughts of me getting stuck there as the village idiot. After another meal with the two women that evening, still apologising every now and then for nearly wiping me out, I said my goodbyes and headed off, as I had a meeting with some rockets. And with that, my weird little Austin adventure came to an end.
Houston, we have a problem. Well, not really; I just wanted an excuse to say that as I fulfilled a boyhood dream: seeing the machines that took humans to the moon. Standing next to the Saturn V, I finally grasped its sheer size. It towered over me, an absolute beast of engineering. Hard to believe something so massive had left Earth. By now, it was mid-summer, and the heat was ramping up.
Heading toward New Orleans, I encountered 100% humidity; like riding through a steam room. Then came the rain. Wearing oilskins in that kind of weather was like wrapping yourself in cling film before running a marathon. I was sweating like a politician under oath. Eventually, I gave up and just let myself get soaked; at least I dried quickly when the sun came out. Bourbon Street was a madhouse; tourists, neon lights, music blasting from every bar, absolute chaos. It was not for me. Instead, I found a quieter spot near the French Quarter, where the food was better and the crowds less suffocating. After a couple of days, I was ready to move on, setting my sights on Key West, since everyone seemed to rave about it.
Atlantic Coastline
I ended up in Panama City, staying at an unusual little four-bed hostel run by an 88-year-old woman named Myrtle. She took three days to answer the phone when I called to book, but I was heading there anyway. Myrtle’s place was an old wooden house near the beach, and she rented out beds to supplement her pension. I was the only guest. She made me a deal: if I bought the groceries, she would cook; but I had to wash up. Sounded fair. I was planning to stay a night. I stayed a week. Why? Because I accidentally became her handyman. What started as fixing a cupboard door turned into mowing the lawn, painting fences, and doing half the repairs she had been putting off for years. By the time I left, the place looked better than when I arrived. But I did not mind. Myrtle was thrilled, and I got to spend some time on the gorgeous beaches.
Then came the ride to Orlando; an ordeal. The heat was relentless, but I refused to take off my leather jacket. The thought of road rash was enough to keep it on, no matter how much I sweated. Rolling into Orlando felt strange. The outskirts were a wasteland of abandoned buildings, but the city centre was all new, shiny, and developed. The hostel was modern, clean, and seemingly safe. Then, half an hour after checking in; gunshots. Sirens wailed outside my window. Not good. Later, I learned that someone had been shot outside the 7-Eleven around the corner. When I asked the hostel staff, they explained the truth: this entire area had been a ghetto. The city bulldozed it, built new housing, but the original residents still lived just a block away; taking potshots at anything that moved. Time to move on.
Fort Lauderdale was a welcome change of pace; laid-back, sunny, and even better, my hostel (Sol Y Mar) had a swimming pool just a short walk from the beach. It was always packed, but I somehow managed to blag a week’s stay. The place had a good mix of travellers, including a few Brits, and before long, we had a group ready for a road trip to Key West. Since there were two cars, I ditched my bike at the hostel and jumped in. None of us were particularly fussed about Miami, so we skipped it and went straight to the Everglades to see some gators. Turns out, blasting through the marshes on an airboat while throwing marshmallows to alligators is a lot more fun than it sounds. The way they snapped them up; like scaly, prehistoric Labradors; was both hilarious and slightly terrifying. When it came to accommodation, we got creative. Instead of booking multiple rooms, two of us would check in, then the other four would sneak in later, taking turns sleeping on the floor. Young, broke, and adventurous; it worked. Key West was even more chilled than Fort Lauderdale. We found a small apartment to rent for the week, which turned out to be cheaper than a motel. The town had a relaxed vibe, with amazing seafood and bars perched over the water, their submerged lights attracting swarms of fish. There was plenty to do, but as the week rolled on, I started thinking about my next move. My six-month visa was ticking away, and I still had a long checklist of places to visit.
After parting ways with my travel crew; one of whom was heading back to dance classes in Covent Garden; I rode north toward Georgia. Someone had told me about an off-grid hostel hidden in the woods near Brunswick, and I figured a short life detox would not hurt. It was exactly as advertised: treehouses, composting toilets, and a swimming hole that reeked of sulphur. The place felt like a cross between a hippie commune and a survivalist retreat. I lasted two days before I could not take it anymore; I needed a proper, fresh-water shower.
From there, I meandered through South Carolina, making my way toward the start of the Blue Ridge Parkway. I had read that it was 460 miles of stunning mountain roads, and it did not disappoint. Breathtaking views, winding curves, and even some gravel and single-lane sections made for a spectacular ride. About halfway through, I had to divert off-route for fuel and found a small general store with an old gas pump out front. No one was around, so I started filling up. That is when I spotted a man rocking slowly on a chair under the veranda at the far end of the store. He did not acknowledge me, just kept staring off into the distance. Inside, I browsed for snacks before heading to the counter, where a woman stood behind the till. As soon as I spoke, she gave me a blank look. I explained I was from England. She frowned. “Where’s that?” Turns out, she had never left the county and had no desire to. Then she asked if I was traveling alone. “Yes,” I replied. My Spidey senses tingled. Something felt… off. I turned my head slightly, just enough to glance outside; and that is when I saw them. A group of people had gathered around my bike, just standing there, staring. Nobody touched it. Nobody spoke. Just watching. Somewhere in the back of my mind, that Deliverance banjo started playing. The woman behind the counter broke the silence. “You’re not traveling alone.” I looked at her. She smiled. “God is with you all the time.” I grabbed my change, muttered a quick thank you, and got the hell out of Dodge.
The Northeastern Experience
Washington, D.C. was my next stop. I had the number of someone I had met in Durango, so I gave them a call, hoping for a place to stay. Oh boy, was I wrong. “Wait… you actually thought I was serious?” came the incredulous response. “Well, yeah, dumbass, since you gave me your real number,” I shot back. Click. Great start. With nowhere else to go, I made my way to the youth hostel, which turned out to be in a pretty run- down neighbourhood. After locking up my bike; half-expecting it to be gone by morning; I settled in for a miserable night. As soon as the sun came up, I was out of there. Talking to other travellers over breakfast, I debated heading to New York, but their horror stories; scams, theft, general chaos; convinced me to skip it. Boston was next on my list. I had another number from Durango and called, hoping for a better result.
“Get here quick; we’re heading to the beach tomorrow!” That was all I needed to hear. I hit the road, making great time. New York faded in my mirrors, and I was cruising at about 70 mph when it happened. A sudden, violent wobble. Instinct kicked in; I pulled to the hard shoulder and planted my feet. One glance at my knees, bent at an odd angle, told me all I needed to know. Puncture. Oh boy. It was 9 p.m., five miles back to the last gas station, and I knew if I left my bike here, there was no way I would find it in one piece when I returned. My best bet? Sit tight and hope a highway patrol car would pass. Note to self: buy a puncture repair kit. I had been sitting there for about twenty minutes, watching trucks roar past; some of them blasting their horns for no reason; when I noticed a motorcycle pulling up behind me. Relief flooded through me. Maybe it was a cop? Nope. It was a Yamaha Venture Royale; a massive touring bike. The rider was just as big, a towering presence in his helmet and leathers.
I walked over, gave a nod. “Hi there.” “Got a problem?” he asked, eyeing the bike. I gestured to the rear wheel. “Yeah, puncture.” He pulled out a torch, crouched down, and examined the tire. When he saw the large, round hole, he chuckled. “I’ll get you going in a few minutes.”
“Really?” I asked, not quite believing it. After quick introductions, he pulled out a small bag, inserted a rubber bung with glue into the hole, and then; like some kind of roadside magician; pulled an air hose from a compartment on his bike. Twenty minutes later, I was ready to roll.
I was gobsmacked. “Mate, I don’t even know how to thank you. Let me buy you a beer, some food; something!” He shook his head. “Just pay it forward. Help the next guy.” Turned out he was a correctional officer from Boston, heading home. He offered to ride with me the rest of the way, just to make sure everything held up. We rode side by side in the cool night air, the city lights finally appearing on the horizon. When we reached Boston, he simply waved and peeled off into the distance. What a guy.
I arrived at the address to the sound of a rock band in full flow, the people that I had met in Durango mentioned they were part of a band but did not realise how good they were. With a warm welcome and a beer thrust into my hand I sat and listened to them rehearse until the early hours, and then found out I was sleeping in the music room! I slept well as I was knackered from the long ride, but was rudely awakened with “hurry up we’re off to the beach now”. I got myself together and we all bundled into a van and shot off, drove for about an hour and ended up on some remote beach with very few people. I had no idea Massachusetts had beaches like this; practically untouched, stunningly beautiful; but the water was freezing. By mid-afternoon, our beer supply had run dry, and someone suggested a supply run. A few of us hopped in the van and drove to a nearby town; Ipswich, oddly enough, which reminded me of home. At the liquor store, I offered to pay since my friends had been covering everything so far. But when I handed the cashier my passport as ID, he barely glanced at it before shaking his head.
“I don’t know what this is,” he said flatly. I blinked. “It’s a passport.” He shrugged. “Never seen one. Cannot accept it.” I let out a slow breath. “Listen here, sunshine, I can enter your country with this; pretty sure I can buy a six-pack with it.” But he was not budging. My friends, meanwhile, were doubled over laughing. Before I could really lose my temper, they dragged me out of the store, still chuckling at my expense. Back at the house, they assured me I could stay as long as I wanted, so I took the opportunity to get my bike properly serviced. I had only done basic maintenance so far, and after thousands of miles on the road, it needed a full check-up. With a few days to spare, I explored Boston; a fascinating mix of old and new architecture, rich history, and incredible museums. It was a great city to wander, though
my sleep schedule took a hit from my hosts’ nocturnal lifestyle. Fortunately, they did not have band practice every night, so I managed to catch up on rest here and there.
After about a week, feeling refreshed and ready to move on, I started planning my next leg. Before coming to the U.S., I had travelled through Australia with a Canadian guy named Keith, who lived in Toronto. I had promised to visit if I was ever in the area, and when we spoke, he told me he was heading out in five days to guide a rafting trip on the Rouge River. “Get here by then, and you can come with me,” he said. Sounded like a plan. I also had a family friend near Toronto I wanted to visit, so it was shaping up to be a busy social stop.
The Long Ride Home
With my next destination mapped out, I set off for Niagara Falls, taking the back roads through upstate New York. It was a pleasant few days’ ride, with the occasional Amish horse and buggy clopping along beside me; a surreal contrast to my roaring motorbike. I found a cozy B&B run by an elderly couple who were incredibly hospitable. They fed me as if I were wasting away, piling my plate high with hearty home-cooked meals; not that I was complaining. After settling in, I spent the afternoon exploring the Falls, venturing both inside and out. The sheer power of the water was mesmerizing, and I got absolutely drenched in the process, but it was worth every second.
Crossing into Canada was surprisingly easy, and I was automatically granted a six-month visa. That meant no frantic dash across the country; I could take my time, though I was mindful that autumn was settling in. I reunited with a family friend I had not seen since I was six, which made for plenty of catching up. Then I met up with Keith, my old travel companion from Australia. Since we had a day to spare before heading off on a rafting trip, we went fishing in the stunning wilderness and even managed to catch dinner. Over our meal, Keith filled me in on what lay ahead. Heavy rains over the past few days had turned the river into a raging torrent, making it a Grade 4-5; too dangerous for paying customers. The owner left it up to the guides to decide if they wanted to run it, and without hesitation, they all said hell yes. I, on the other hand, had no idea what a Grade 4-5 river entailed. I was about to find out. There were five guides and me, and we would be spending the next five days in a cabin deep in the woods. It was an incredible experience, though I had more than a few close calls, including multiple dunkings in the notorious “washing machine”; a brutal whirlpool that sucked me under and spat me back out like a rag doll. Despite the near-death experiences, I loved every minute of it, especially the sheer adrenaline rush of shooting along shallow sections like a human torpedo.
When our time on the river ended, I thanked Keith for an unforgettable adventure and set off toward my next stop: Montreal. To this day, I am not entirely sure why I decided to go there; maybe because it was close to Ottawa. Either way, my impression of the city was… well, mixed. The city itself was beautiful, but the locals? Let us just say they were very French about my attempts to speak their language. Their reactions were so dismissive that I eventually gave up and stuck to English, playing the role of the clueless tourist.
Ottawa, on the other hand, was completely different. A charming capital with incredible museums, stunning architecture, and plenty to do, I spent two enjoyable days exploring before gearing up for the long haul to Calgary. By this point, autumn was in full swing, and the days were bitterly cold. Even with every layer of clothing I owned, plus some last-minute thermal gear I picked up in Ottawa, the chill was relentless. The journey itself was monotonous; flat, straight roads stretching endlessly ahead. To keep myself entertained, I started counting train cars as I rode alongside the railway. Some of them stretched for over a mile, with more than 120 cars linked together.
When I finally rode into Calgary, the sight of the distant Rockies lifted my spirits. The city, however, was eerily quiet; without the Stampede, there was not much going on. I ate, slept, and the very next day, rode straight toward the mountains. The moment I entered the Rockies, the scenery transformed, a dramatic change from the endless grasslands. However, I was immediately concerned by how low the snow line was creeping. By the time I arrived in Banff, the hostel’s parking lot had snow piled up in the corners. Winter was closing in fast, and I knew I could not stay long. That night, I met a group of fellow travellers who were heading to Jasper in a few days and offered me a lift. It was an easy decision. I had overheard people raving about a local restaurant called The Grizzly House, so I suggested we check it out before leaving. The food was fantastic; an insane variety of fondues and hot rock dishes featuring beef, buffalo, chicken, rattlesnake, lobster, and even shark.
The drive to Jasper was breathtaking, a photographer’s dream. Our plan was to hike to a remote lake that one of my companions had read about. We set off mid-morning under clear blue skies, carrying food and drinks for a picnic. Hours passed, and though we encountered plenty of small ponds, there was still no sign of the lake. I started to wonder if we were on the right trail. Then I noticed the clouds rolling in. The temperature dropped sharply, and I voiced my concerns. No one seemed too worried, so we carried on. After lunch, I was even more uneasy; the sky was completely overcast now, and it looked like snow. When I insisted we turn back, the others were not happy, but after some heated words, they reluctantly agreed. As we neared the car, the first fat snowflakes began to fall. Relief washed over me; we had made it just in time. By the time we reached the main road, the snowfall had turned heavy, and it became clear we would not make it to Jasper that night. Someone remembered passing a small hostel earlier, so we turned around, skidding and sliding our way toward it. When we knocked on the door, a man answered, looking stunned to see five snow- covered strangers on his doorstep. As it turned out, we were his last guests before he closed for the winter the very next day. That night, we huddled inside, feasting on whatever food was left in the cabin; canned soup, chips, and some slightly expired Twinkies; while the fireplace roared. No one complained. By morning, two feet of snow had buried the car. After some digging, we managed to get back on the road, where the snow had already been cleared. The drive back to Banff was completely transformed; a winter wonderland now.
For me, though, a bigger concern loomed. Would I even be able to ride to Vancouver? Back at the hostel, I found my bike buried in snow. With the sun helping to melt it, I began brushing it off, hoping for the best. When I hit the ignition, the engine roared to life on the first try. That was my cue; I was getting the hell out of Dodge. It took two long, freezing days to reach Vancouver, where I checked into the Jericho Beach Youth Hostel; a stunning location near the water. I spent a few days exploring the city, soaking in the last bit of Canada before heading south. With winter settling in, it was time to move on.
For the next few weeks, I followed Route 101 south, stopping for a day or two in any town that caught my interest. But my main goal lay ahead; the Redwood National Parks. Riding through these ancient forests was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Towering giants lined the road, their sheer size making me feel insignificant in the best possible way. I spent a week weaving through the misty groves, carving through the winding roads, and even riding through a few of the massive, hollowed-out trunks. It was the kind of place that made me slow down, take deep breaths, and soak in every moment.
Next on my list was San Francisco. Having seen the city in countless TV shows and movies, I was eager to explore it for myself. Crossing the Golden Gate Bridge at dawn, wrapped in morning mist, felt surreal; a photographer’s dream shot. I managed to find a bed at the Fisherman’s Wharf Hostel, nestled within Fort Mason, a scenic stretch of National Park land right on the bay. Mornings were magical; waking to the sound of foghorns drifting across the water, sipping coffee with a view of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge. Exploring the city on my bike was a blast. Ripping up and down the steep hills, I could not help but imagine the famous car chase from “Bullitt.” I even tackled Lombard Street, its eight tight hairpins were fun to ride. San Francisco’s food scene was phenomenal; a mix of cultures, flavours, and dishes I had never tried before. In over a week, I never ate the same thing twice, indulging in everything from fresh seafood at the wharf to authentic dim sum in Chinatown. But eventually, it was time to move on.
For my final stretch, I took the scenic Pacific Coast Highway (Route 1) all the way back to Los Angeles. Hugging the rugged coastline, the road twisted and turned through some of the most breathtaking ocean views I had ever seen. As my journey came to an end, I felt a mix of accomplishment and sadness. The Fazer had been my trusted companion for six months and over 17,000 miles, never missing a beat. Apart from one puncture, it had been flawless; a rare feat for any long-haul adventure. I had bought it for $1,700 and sold it for $1,000, a bargain for the memories it had given me. Looking back, I realized that I had travelled thousands of miles for little more than the cost of fuel, tyres, and basic maintenance. But what I had gained in experience, freedom, and stories? Priceless. With rolls of film to develop and a lifetime of memories, I left the U.S. with the thought of returning one day to revisit my favourite spots; and discover the ones I had missed.
Little did I know, I would be back just a year later.