The Tale of A Modest Burgman Tour

[ChrisLucey]

(or, Mike and Chris's Excellent Adventure)

Surely this won’t impress any Iron Butt veteran. Nor might it be highly regarded by any serious biker who has ridden a chrome-plated cruiser to Baja and back. But we – a middle-aged married couple with a love of travel and a new way to indulge it – don’t feel too badly about having completed our first honest-to-goodness tour on our Burgman bikes.

Note: We just hate calling them scooters. It sounds so … diminutive. So cute. The initiated all know they’re actually automatic motorcycles with a step-through frame. But since that’s too big a mouthful, we simply call ‘em bikes – although by the end of the journey they were our ‘noble steeds.’

We began from our home in Tannersville, which is in the northern Catskill Mountains of New York State, some 125 miles north of “the city,” on Saturday, September 10th. Our sights were ultimately set on the mid-coast of Maine, but our goal on Day 1 was to see how far we could get in a full day of riding on secondary roads. We’d never gone more than about 150 miles in a day, and all of our rides before this one had been daytrips. Moreover, neither of us is fond of riding interstate highways on two wheels, and we were unsure what kind of time we would make on the smaller roads we’d vowed to take.

Departure was a bit before 9 a.m., on a clear, brilliantly sunny but quite cool day. We headed east (and down) into the Hudson Valley, across the river at Catskill, and past the community college where we had taken our MSF beginning rider course the year before. We noticed the practice bikes being set out for that day’s students to use, and felt alternately like old veterans by comparison, and like kindred spirits.

At the city of Hudson, we turned northward, past small farms that were bursting with the colorful look of harvest season. We continued northward into Rensselaer County, then stepped eastward over the border into Massachusetts. Our first ride into another state! By such small steps are mighty journeys achieved.

We puttered through Williamstown and nearby North Adams. Yes, the homes and businesses immaculate, tasteful, and toney, but the high volume and low speed of the traffic were a nuisance. We felt we lost a good bit of time driving stop-and-go through these towns; the only bright side was that, at such low speeds, there was less wind chill, and we warmed up a bit.

At last we passed through and took Route 8 into Vermont, where we picked up Vermont Route 9 heading east.

Well!

Route 9 was a delight. We discovered twisties upon sweepers upon more twisties, excellent pavement and good banking. Only the moose-crossing signs gave us pause as we rolled joyfully through the forested hills. A great many other riders clearly knew what we had discovered by happy accident. We almost got tired of waving, and the scenic overlook where we paused was a veritable biker rally. Since we hadn’t much time to chat, it was back on the road again, heading for Brattleboro. Someday we simply MUST go back and investigate what Route 9 is like heading west from where we picked it up.

We stopped for lunch in a small diner in East Brattleboro and fueled at a nearby filling station, where gasoline at Vermont’s less-tax-laden rates was a “mere” $2.98 per gallon. (Many of you may sneer, but it’s hard for an American to adjust to paying $16 to fill up two bikes.)

Having had our fill of city traffic, we climbed onto Interstate 91 for one exit to avoid Brattleboro’s downtown, then picked up Route 9 again, which was much changed: it was still well-built, but had less character. On the bright side, we made better time.

As we neared Keene, New Hampshire, we made a costly mistake. A moment’s inattention got us on the wrong road, and we became trapped like rats in a suburban maze of shopping malls, big-box stores and chain restaurants. It was a piece of hell decorated in neon, plastic, asphalt and stoplights, and the cage-drivers showed a couple of disoriented out-of-state riders no mercy. It took easily ten minutes for us to extract ourselves, and Mike was greatly pissed.

But finally we recovered Route 9. We picked up another piece of high-speed road to get around the heart of Concord, New Hampshire (which is a pretty city, from what we did see of it). Near Chichester, we admitted to each other that we were thirsty and getting sore. Drinks from a convenience store, and a good stretch, gave us heart to go on. Shortly we discovered that my radio wasn’t working properly, and we had to stop again to track down and correct the problem; a wire had worked loose inside my helmet. But then we settled down for another run, ever eastward.

Route 9 became Route 202, which passed through Rochester, New Hampshire. At about 4 p.m. we left 202 and began riding around a bit looking for a place to stay the night. After an inadvertent tour of downtown Rochester, we spied the Route 125 Motel, which proved to be modestly appointed, clean, biker-friendly, and a bargain at $68 a night for two people. We were quite glad to shed the heavy jackets and chaps we’d had to wear all day to ward off the chill air, but then we discovered that we hurt in funny places.

Our first day’s numbers: 248 miles in 7 hours and 15 minutes of riding. All but a few miles were on secondary roads. We could have pushed ourselves harder and probably put on another 50 miles before wearing out entirely, but, hey, this was our vacation! As it was, we were happy to stop where we did, and were not displeased with what we had done.

Additional numbers: My Burgman 400 got its usual 70 miles per gallon, and Mike’s 650 got about 56 MPG.

(To be continued)

--Chris

[ICE929RR]

Nice...

Keep the report coming !

Cheers,

Luís

[Ken OBSC]

I think that Rt 9 through Vermont and New Hampshire is a beautiful road. I lived in Hillsboro, NH for 3 years back in the 70's, teaching at a small college.

You passed right through Hillsboro, a classic New England mill town. Other towns in the area are more picturesque, but Hillsboro is a nice friendly town.

The stretch of road between Hillsboro and Henniker, to the east, runs along a river and is gorgeous.

I envy your visit.

[ChrisLucey]

The next day (Sunday the 11th), we arose to find the weather warmer and moister. A heavy dew had soaked our bikes, and I regretted not bringing my Airhawk seat in during the night as Mike had done. A towel from our room got most of it, but my rear end still got a bit damp.

After McBreakfast, during which we were very conspicuous in our riding gear, we returned to Route 202 and soon were in Maine. We had never seen this part of the state before, and it reminded us of rural Ontario. Sandy soil, birch and pine trees, and neat, modest single-story homes lined the road. Couldn’t miss the fact that everyone’s lawns were burned to a crisp. Dry summer, evidently.

We quickly discovered that, unlike the folks in New Hampshire, bikers from Maine wave. They favor chrome cruisers with loud pipes, and there were bunches of them out and about.

Soon we figured out that something was up. Motorcycles were seemingly coming out of the woodwork, and folks were turning out along the road with lawn chairs to watch them, and us. A parade? A poker run? We debated the possibilities for some miles.

Then we were forced to stop in a traffic jam resulting from an accident, and we sneaked up the shoulder of the road and slipped in with a pack of bikers where we could finally ask what was going on. A friendly Harley rider informed us it was a big toy ride going into Augusta. Ah! That explained it! And it naturally explained the plastic bucket of Legos bungee’d to the guy’s pillion seat.

After some minutes of chit-chat and answering the usual questions about our Burgmans, the police started to wave vehicles around the accident. Everyone saddled up quickly and pulled out. The group formed a stagger and proceeded to outpace all the other vehicles behind them.

Picture nearly 30 full-dressed cruisers – pipes roaring, chrome winking, mostly helmetless, leather fringes flapping – and a handful of screaming sport bikes ridden by immortal lads and lasses in t-shirts and jeans, being tailed by two middle-aged tourists in full protective gear, with luggage and intercom radios, riding … well, scooters.

We rolled two abreast through town after town, treating the speed limit with casual disdain. People waved from the roadside, so we waved back. Clearly we benefited from the association, receiving both (undeserved) public adulation and a cop-free pass to ride like hell into the state capital.
It was exhilarating, although stinky with exhaust because we rode rearguard. I laughed and laughed into my helmet. I felt like an utter poseur, but my 400 and I kept up with the ‘bad boys’ perfectly well, so I guess I’m not one. Of course Mike’s 650 had no trouble with the pace. He once demonstrated Power Mode for the friendly Harley rider, and that was fun, too.

In Augusta we stopped to catch our breath, and some lunch. Then we continued east and north along Routes 17 and 90 until we met the fabled Route 1, along which lay our destination, The Country Inn of Camden, Maine. Arrived at 2:15 p.m., having traveled 153 miles. We averaged about 40 miles per hour that we spent riding, about the same as the day before.

(More later)

[ChrisLucey]

Day 3 (Monday the 12th) was almost bike-free. Our only excursion was from the inn into Camden village, no more than a mile away. We parked in a municipal lot about three blocks off the main drag, then indulged in a long and pleasant stroll to soak up the lovely views of the bay, enjoy the wonderful sea air, snoop into many little shops, and of course eat seafood at every opportunity.

It was an unseasonably warm day for mid-September, and when we returned to our bikes hours later, we were very surprised to discover that our kick-stands had sunk an inch or so into the asphalt of the parking lot. Sure, we’d heard that this could happen in the heat, but, hell, this was Maine, not Nevada! Fortunately our machines had stayed upright, and we filed the experience away under lessons learned. After that we no longer felt silly using the flattened tin can ‘feet’ we both carry in our glove boxes.

One other noteworthy bike-related experience that quiet day: For the first time ever, I rode without a helmet. Maine has no helmet law, and we gave the matter some thought and decided that, ‘When in Rome….”

Yup, it was foolish, even going such a short distance, and we were fortunate nothing bad happened. But it was undeniably refreshing on a hot day, and frankly I wish I could see around me that well all the time when riding. Ah well! An interesting experiment, but it will never be our habit, even if the State of New York should suddenly decide to stop poking its nose into our business and repeal the helmet law. (Har, har.)

[Peggy Suz]

Great report! Sounds like a fun ride. How about the Fall colors?

[Selias]

Great read! Thanks for sharing!

[The Confessor]

*Confessor nods*

Great read, and well-written... many travelogues are too stream-of-consciousness.

[ChrisLucey]

I'm glad to hear some folks are enjoying this story. I sincerely appreciate everyone's indulgence. This is a little project I'm doing to keep my mind busy during the dull work of recoverying from some surgery. I can't escape feeling a bit self-centered posting this large an item, but it's giving me a lot of pleasure to buff up my journal notes and re-live the memories, and I hope it will encourage others to take the plunge and make their own such road trip.

Peggy Suz, to our disappointment, the foliage had scarcely begun to turn. We saw perhaps half a dozen places along our route where the swamp maples and sumac were going red, but they were so scarce as to not be worth mentioning. I think we needed to have driven the route in early October, not mid-September. Ah well! Perhaps another year.

To continue ....

On Day 4 (Tuesday the 13th) we had to make a choice. We wanted to get out and do some bike-mounted sight-seeing, and of course Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park beckoned from about two hours to our north. But somehow neither of us was eager to go that far, probably because we knew we had a long ride ahead of us the next day. Moreover, what we’d seen of Route 1 disappointed us with its bustling traffic and many stoplights. So after consulting a couple of maps, we decided instead to head south and explore the St. George peninsula.

We took Route 1 down to Rockland (not to be confused with Rockport, which we skipped since it looked overrun by tour buses). Its main street was a pleasant place, with architecture mostly of old brick rather than gray clapboard, and we passed a pleasant while in a friendly antiquarian bookshop whose owner was happy to ship our purchases home for us.

Heading on, we picked up little Route 73 as it wove through many lovely small villages, past fields and woods, salt marshes and coves. At last, we felt we’d found where the Mainers LIVED, not just where they worked. Further still off the beaten path, we took a pleasant walk along the water’s edge at pretty Birch Point Beach State Park, collecting a barnacle-encrusted round stone as a souvenir, and answering questions about our Burgmans for a friendly park ranger.

A few miles further on we connected with Route 131, which took us down to Port Clyde and, ultimately, the Marshall Point Lighthouse, which was a treat. I’d never before walked right up to a lighthouse, and I blew through a bunch of film taking scenic pictures of, and from, the light’s wooden walkway. The small, free-of-charge museum in the converted keeper’s home was neat to browse, and there were several picnic tables and benches to encourage visitors to slow down and count the lobster trap buoys bobbing all about the point.

Back in the saddle, we returned roughly the way we’d come, our route diverging here and there from the one we’d taken coming down in order to see more of the area. In an hour or so we were back at The Country Inn, chasing the slight chill with afternoon tea and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, and browsing happily through the Inn’s sizeable lending library. (You’ve probably already figured out that Mike and I are both incurable book-a-holics.)

That night, after a final seafood dinner in downtown Camden, we did all the advance packing we could and readied our bikes for the next day’s departure. In the process of going to the parking lot and back attending our machinery, we were tackled by the night desk attendant, a long-time motorcycle rider who had begun to wish for a maxi-scooter, and noticed ours. We had a great chat and answered lots of questions; naturally we offered him a chance to sit on both of our machines while we gave him a little tour of their features. It’s always great to make a new friend, and of course to proselytize about maxi-scooters.

If that guy doesn’t own a Burgman 400 by springtime, we’ll eat our bandanas.

[ChrisLucey]

Wednesday the 14th (Day 5) dawned … well, it barely dawned at all. In stark contrast to the excellent weather we’d had up ‘til then, a low layer of very wet fog had rolled in during the night and was soaking everything. Plainly, the previous night’s weather forecast of “sunny, mid-80s” was incorrect. So we put our hopes in the promise that any coastal fog would burn off as we moved inland.

We did our last bit of packing, sponged off the bikes with spare towels from our room, donned our wet weather gear and loaded up in time for departure at about 8 a.m.

Our hopes of rapid improvement in the weather came to naught. Traveling was foggy and wet all the way to and past Augusta. For a while the mist would lift, and a quick swipe at the windscreen with a bandana would restore vision and confidence. But presently the cloud bottom would settle down again, and our Givis would simply run with condensation. It was more difficult and annoying for me, because I look through the windscreen on my 400. Mike is able to look over the screen on his 650, and he was less bothered by the conditions.

In Augusta, we diverged from our previous way and headed northward on Route 11. This new path through the city allowed us more sight-seeing, and we were struck by the very blue-collar look of the place. No doubt there are pretentious sections of Augusta, but to our eyes it was a most down-to-earth-appearing state capital.

Our path north and westward along Routes 11 and 27 finally took us out of the damned fog (though not into any sunshine) and through an area called Belgrade Lakes. The village of the same name was very quaint in a 1930s way, and practically begged for a return trip and closer examination.

Eventually we reached Route 2, the east-west ‘main line’ through mid-Maine and northern New Hampshire and Vermont. The first big town we encountered was the aptly-named Farmington, which had on its western side a bunch of construction, including about two miles of scarified road surface which was challenging and hard on the bikes and our nerves. Edge-traps everywhere!

Route 2 seemed endless as it crossed Maine through Dixfield, Mexico (home to a huge mill at the falls of the famed Androscoggin River), Rumford, Bethel, and many others.

At last we came, nearly simultaneously, to the New Hampshire border, to twisty road as we entered the White Mountains, and – hooray! – to blue skies. We stopped for lunch in Gorham, New Hampshire, a fair-sized town within hailing distance of Mount Washington. Had a good rest and stretch before stripping off some of our heavier clothing in deference to the sun and growing warmth, and headed Vermont-ward. For many miles, the mountains of the Presidential Range loomed imposingly to our left (south).

Once in Vermont, we sailed into St. Johnsbury, following a string of large trucks and much buffeted by the dirty air they left in their wake. We happily stopped at the Maple Grove Farms main plant – THE regional factory that produces those wonderful maple sugar candies shaped like leaves – where we wilted in the hot sunshine but persevered to acquire candies to bring home, and water to guzzle on the spot.

Route 2 climbs sharply from St. Johnsbury and runs twistingly through highlands before diving back down into the valley at Montpelier. We had planned to push on to Burlington, but it was nearly 4 p.m., and we had covered 248 miles already. Both of us were bushed, and there was a Comfort Inn and Suites with an Applebee’s Restaurant right smack in its front yard. It was serendipity.

Since we could walk to and from dinner instead of riding, we unwound by indulging in some large beers, and were snugged into our hotel room and asleep by 9 p.m. (Hey, I admitted we’re middle-aged, right?)

(Continued)

[Wasquid]

It sounds like a very nice tour at a comfortable pace. Thank you for sharing the story.

[ChrisLucey]

Our first goal on Thursday the 15th (Day 6) was to sleep until 7 a.m., but the noise of nearby trucks woke us by 6:30. It turns out that the Comfort Inn in Montpelier is right next to a county highway department complex.

To our greater dismay, we found it raining steadily. A breakfast-time peek at the weather radar from the hotel’s internet kiosk showed a good band of rain moving west to east, but there was an obvious edge to it about an hour away. So we opted to stay put a bit longer and let the heavier weather pass by.

That was a good choice. We hit the road, again be-decked in our wet weather gear, at 8:30 a.m. The rain slacked off rapidly, and overspray quickly ceased to be an issue. The ride on Route 2 between Montpelier and Burlington was an attractive one, in spite of the gray conditions. We made good time, and were pleasantly surprised to reach the Burlington car ferry port in time for the 10:30 trip across Lake Champlain. We’d expected to miss that departure because we’d left the hotel later than we wanted.

The ferry trip was a delight. True, there was no sunshine, and since they were the first vehicles in line on the starboard side, our bikes got wet all over again in the light rain. But the big lake was pretty nevertheless, and crossing it by boat was a pleasant and comfortable way to travel. The break to watch the water while drinking some nice hot coffee was very welcome.

We puttered off the ferry in Port Kent, New York, then headed south on Routes 9 and 9H, stopping to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ from the bridge over Ausable Chasm. We enjoyed a very pretty run along the Ausable River (if only it had been sunny!), then in the little village of Jay we picked up Route 86 and followed its windy way into the heart of the Adirondacks, past Whiteface Mountain and into Lake Placid, our resting place for the next few days. It was early to check into our hotel, so we parked in town and had a light lunch at a walk-up deli on Main Street. When enough time had passed, we made our way to the Mirror Lake Inn. I couldn’t help but feel a bit conspicuous registering at a 4-star establishment while bedecked in biker gear (helmet hair and all), but of course everyone there had far too much gentility to notice.

The thermometer hanging on our room’s little balcony said the weather again had turned uncharacteristically warm: It was 83 degrees, with broken bits of sunshine finally coming out to highlight the kayakers on the nearby water.

Our day’s tally was a mere 85 miles, not including the ferry ride, between 8:30 a.m. and 1:15 p.m. A very easy day of traveling, but a very interesting one.
______________________

Friday September 16th (Day 7) was a quiet, lazy one, involving our bikes not at all (you road-story purists may prefer to skip this section). We breakfasted downstairs in the hotel’s dining room, then undertook several hours of wandering up and down the streets of Lake Placid. Our favorite stops were the satellite shop of The Adirondack Museum, and The Pipe and Book. The museum shop contained many nice and tasteful things that would have fit well with the décor of our home, but for good or ill we had no real storage to spare, so mostly we window-shopped. The Pipe and Book, as the name suggests, is an antiquarian book store that provided three floors of excellent browsing, watched over benevolently by an elderly blonde-haired spaniel.

Simple indolence limited our enthusiasm for touring the Olympic venues. Eventually we wandered back toward our hotel, and we lunched at the Cottage Café, which is right on the shore of Mirror Lake. Our water’s-edge view included a loon, fishing for its meal, and we were extremely pleased; no warm-weather visit to the north woods would seem complete without seeing one of these beautiful, enchanting birds.

Then it was back to the hotel for some pure relaxation, including (for me) a trip to the spa to have some tired road muscles massaged into submission. Then dinner, for the second night in a row, in the Mirror Lake Inn’s excellent dining room, where we could happily deplete the wine list because we had no need to drive anywhere.

Back in our room, we put our luggage together a bit and watched the weather forecast with a growing sense of gloom. The TV pundits assured us that the remnants of Hurricane Ophelia were going to make for a really challenging final day to our bike tour.

[ChrisLucey]

Saturday, September 17th (Day Eight).

So, did it rain on us? Yep.

Did that stink? Sure.

But did it rain buckets, as predicted? No. Mercifully, no.

We checked out and hit the road at 8:30 a.m., after a pleasant but too-quick visit to the inn’s lovely weekend breakfast buffet. The weather was more misty than truly rainy, but it still challenged visibility, as it had earlier in our trip. My bandanas got steady work wiping my windscreen at every convenient opportunity.

On Route 86 in Saranac Lake, the skies opened and it truly rained. We thought we were in for it then, but fortunately it didn’t last. As we pressed southward, we eventually had only to deal with foggy mist and the overspray of other vehicles. Happily, our rain gear was entirely up to the challenge.

Our radios, unfortunately, were not. Water got somewhere into the wiring on Mike’s bike, and his radio began to stutter constantly. Eventually we had to give up and shut things off, so our riding became rather solitary after that. Having 2-way radios is a wonderful convenience, and we missed being able to share our needs, thoughts and observations.

I should like to drive this route again when it’s not shrouded in fog and cloud. The bits I could see were tantalizingly pretty: wooded mountain peaks with beautiful lakes and streams wound about their feet. We followed Route 86 to Tupper Lake, then picked up Route 30 south through Indian Lake, heading homeward.

We paused for lunch in the cute little village of Speculator, where the folks at the Sunrise Café both fed us generously and made us feel like welcome old friends. They’ll have our business again whenever we pass that way, no question. As we prepared, warmed and refreshed, to return to the road, we waved to a sizeable group of riders going northward the way we had come, and we noticed none of them were in rain gear. Our hopes rose!

We pressed down Route 30 along the Great Sacandaga Reservoir, leaving the Adirondacks behind as we drove into (comparatively) citified Amsterdam, and over the fabled Mohawk River. Route 30 from here southward was pretty, too, but in a different way. Here the land was hilly (not mountainous); tidy dairy farms and fields of corn and autumn crops took turns with tracts of woods, punctuated by small rural villages. And some wonderfully winding, well-maintained pavement linked it all together.

We paused briefly in the village of Schoharie for sodas and a stretch. Then a bit further south we turned onto Route 23 heading eastward into the northern Catskills. In Prattsville we picked up Route 23A, which winds and turns prettily along the north bank of the Schoharie Creek. Soon (but not soon enough, for we were growing weary) Route 23A became Main Street in Tannersville, and, in another mile up a side street, we were home. We killed the motors of our noble steeds at 2:50 p.m., having driven 235 miles that day, and a bit short of 1,000 miles overall.
______________________

In retrospect, the five most indispensable pieces of equipment we added to our bikes to make this trip more fun and comfortable were:
(a) Our Givi windscreens
(b) Our 2-way radios,
(c) Our Airhawk seat cushions,
(d) Our Cramp Busters, and
(e) Our Nelson-Rigg luggage, specifically a ‘touring series’ Goldwing trunk pack for each of us, mounted across our rear seats. This large bag fits the 650 like it was made for it, and also fits the 400 after lengthening the nylon tie-down straps about six inches.

We carried a tire-plug kit and portable tire pump, but mercifully needed neither one. Of course we had a first-aid kit. Each of us had a couple of cotton bandanas, and they came in handy for countless small jobs.
Other than that, our gear was fairly standard for a one-week trip out of space roughly equivalent to that of an airline-approved carry-on bag. Once (in Maine) we did a load of laundry, and that allowed us to get through the week with plenty of clean clothing. We successfully used an amalgam of packing lists posted in this forum by others, with minor adaptations to allow for our personal tastes.

Mike carried two different riding jackets, one leather and the other mesh with a removable insulated liner. I wore a mesh jacket with a removable windproof lining, but brought a leather vest I could put underneath for extra warmth. Both of us had chaps, two pair of gloves of different weights, and of course riding boots.

Neither of us have ‘special-purpose’ rain gear; Mike’s came from Cabela’s, and my set is entry-level from The North Face. Both, however, are bright yellow on top, the better to be seen. And both did the job. I found it necessary to tuck my hood down into my coat, or it would batter ceaselessly at my neck and face as I rode.

We chose to wear our full-face modular helmets, although we own three-quarter hats, too. I modified mine with a ‘helmet sunblocker,’ a strip of stick-on, not-quite-opaque dark plastic sheeting that helps cut down glare from low sunlight. Mike took a different approach to the glare problem: he added to his helmet a ‘Super-Visor,’ fundamentally a glued-on hat brim. We were both glad of those simple modifications.

I’m a bit prone to back pain while riding. I brought along two back braces, one for my lower back and another targeting my shoulders. I rarely needed them both, but it sure was helpful to have ‘em along. Mike’s back also gets sore after a full day of riding, but he’s either tougher or more stubborn than I, and goes without support. I believe he regretted that on some of our 200-plus-mile days.
___________________

Conclusion: We are what you might call veteran travelers. I’d need two hands to count the number of times I have been abroad, and if Mike were to start counting he’d have to resort to using his feet, too. Yet both of us have a real sense of accomplishment from the completion of this simple road trip on our Burgmans. True, we drove only about 1,000 miles, and we spread them out over a comfortable span of time. But for a couple of more-or-less new riders, we don’t feel we did badly.

Our confidence in ourselves and in our bikes has increased significantly. We learned a lot about what our reasonable limits are, and a lot about what our Burgers are capable of doing – which is plenty. If you don’t believe us, just ask the guys on that group ride up in Maine.

In short, if we did it, so could you.

Now go get that road atlas, and start planning!


- 30 30 30 – endit -

[TomRider]

Hi!

Let me print this post to read it on the train for work!

By the way, dont you have any pics?

Soon i will comment ok?

Cya

[ChrisLucey]

I've organized, edited and posted my modest trip photos in a new Album:

http://burgmanusa.com/gallery/Sept_2005_RoadTrip

They're not works of art, but I hope they add to people's enjoyment.

Best,
Chris

[TomRider]

Great pics Chris, great ride!

Keep the good job

Cya

[ChrisLucey]

I'm glad you like the pictures, Tom. Thank you for suggesting that I post them.

Cheers,
Chris

[motordjbear]

Chris,

I thoroughly enjoyed your story! You are an excellent writer, and I felt as though I was following your every turn on the trip. Thank you for sharing it with all of us.

Bear