1000 Miles on Vintage Motorcycles, Indiana to Florida

“The only people for me are the mad ones; the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…” -Jack Kerouac

Roaring majestically along in the sprung saddle of the 1967 Moto Guzzi V7, as the afternoon sun burns the landscape a rich, deep golden hue, the shadow riders chasing us along the twisting country road grow longer. Night is coming down, and my inner dialogue turns to the question I am repeatedly asked: “How did Trippin on Two Wheels get started?” Forcing an inner smile, I look over to see Dennis’ unwaxed mustache flying horizontal in the 60 mph breeze. His face is set in a comfortable way, as roaring down the road on his ’69 BMW R60 he indulges in his own motorcycle Chautauqua. Sam is on point for the first time in the series, and looking back for the answer it all seems like such a long time ago.

It was a brutally hot, humid afternoon at the Santa Monica Raceway in Misano, Italy. Working a story about the 2002 World Ducati Week, the place was teeming with Ducatisti from all over the world, and at times it was hard to move. Yet somehow amongst all the madness, Dennis and I ended up talking over a cold drink. Looking back it’s not surprising that the two weirdest, anti-establishment loonies at the event should find each other. It doesn’t seem strange that a couple of hours later we were splitting traffic on a pair of Ducati Monsters at triple digit speeds heading back to Bologna either. Or less than a week after that we were both in Janesville, Wisconsin, covering the “Triumph Across America” ride. It’s clear now that the planets of insanity were in some sort of cosmic, or is that comedic, alignment judging by our particular orbits. Dennis was starting Corbin’s Ride On; I had some television production skills and know a few things about motorcycles.

During the next years there was much dialogue, lots of hard work, and plenty of fun. As many who know him can attest, when the caller ID says Dennis, you better have your mental “A” game on and at least an hour of free time. It was during one of these conversations that I suggested making a travel documentary in Scotland. Click! Dennis obviously didn’t like it, but at least I’d found a way of getting him off the phone.

After some careful persuasion, we were off.

This continued for months, with me constantly upping the ante. “I’ll have new Triumph Sprints ready to ride! We can take Sam! I’ll sell stories to cover the beer.” He was softening, but not yielding, when I finally went for the jugular. Using the line that carried us to the Highlands of Scotland, Sicily, Southern Spain, Quebec, and the Alps on two wheels I asked, “Could you live with yourself if you didn’t?”

With the pair of us quickly adopting this as mantra, conveniently using it when common sense and rational thinking are out to ruin a good adventure, earlier that year I saw Dennis on my caller ID at an inconvenient moment. Realizing it was just a matter of time before she saw through the phony British accent, and claims of being a TV star anyway, I stepped out to take the call.

Two months later, with Dennis in the seat of his BMW R60/2, Sam riding the toaster tank R75/5, and the Big-Nosed one riding my favorite motorcycle in Dennis’ collection, we were rolling south from the Gage estate on a day that could send atheists heading to church. Brightly colored flowers filled the fields, the sun danced majestically with whimsical clouds, and “Trippin’” number six was a go.

As Grand Marshal of Riding into History in St. Augustine, Florida, Tripmaster D, as he is known in Trippin speak, had thought about riding down on one of his vintage bikes. Maybe Sam might join him? Maybe I could come down to hang out? Maybe if we didn’t have free Verizon to Verizon it might have ended there? But we are not that smart, and following along behind us in the Gage family minivan was our producer/cameraman Ben, and our new driver, Sam’s high school buddy Adam, which meant it was really happening.

Three steeds for the journey- ’67 Moto Guzzi V7, ’69 BMW R60/2, and the “toaster tank” R75/5.

Dennis had put a lot of work into the bikes during the previous weeks, testing and tuning them to make sure they would survive four hard days of riding. The BMW hadn’t been started for five years, the Guzzi had transmission seal issues, while the R75 needed nothing special as always. Following the progress on the end of my cell phone, it’s always incredible to me how Dennis can find so much enthusiasm for everything he does in life.

Adjusting to Old Mother Goose, as she affectionately became known, took a little time. A long, lumbering wheel base, four hard-to-find gears located on the right hand side of the bike with an upside down shift pattern, and a spongy lever on the right handlebar that someone had mislabeled as the brake (I can see drum brake supporters emailing Rob to complain at my heresy here already). The throttle was like some sort of forearm enlarging exercise machine. And the screeching sound the rear brake gave the first time it was used everyday felt like it would loosen the fillings in my teeth. There was no word in her vocabulary for acceleration, just a gentle gathering of speed. But with the ignition key starter in the beautiful, polished headlight nacelle firing her faultlessly to life every time, her perfect carburation making each amble up through the gears a delicious experience to be savored, and the comfortable riding position, it didn’t take long to fall in love.

While Dennis would be frantically kicking away at the R60, I would let Old Mother Goose gently rock away beneath me, cracking the throttle to indulge in the mellow boom from the aftermarket pipes. Sam would kick the toaster for the camera, but anytime it wasn’t going well he would resort to the electric boot for back up. Smart lad.

Starting out on smooth Indiana four-lane gave all of us a chance to find our pace, and by the time we turned south on SR 231 around Owensboro, KY, we were getting in the groove. Picking up the Natcher Parkway we were soon swinging through a series of relaxed bends, and I was pleasantly surprised by how solid the Guzzi handled for such an old girl. Above 70 mph she had a disconcerting weave, but who wants to go that fast on a vintage bike anyway?

“It doesn’t look like they’re open today,…”

Stopping to film constantly was a big deterrent to making big distances, and with over 250 miles planned for the first day, who knew if we would make it on these old bikes? Caring not a jot, we had a long, leisurely lunch break at a small Mom & Pop restaurant in Portland, TN. Meeting a few of our new best friends, we ate all sorts of local delicacies, including deep fried macaroni & cheese nuggets. Sam ate all of his, while the waitress fell in love with Dennis, and we entertained the local folk with stories from the road. Truth be told, I doubt they could understand my English accent, but we must have looked interesting with all the camera gear we were toting and Dennis’ mustache.

Bloating down the highway after lunch the road ran up hill and down dale as we meandered south. The sky was clear, vibrant trees lined the road, but I was developing an itch that was going to require scratching. We needed another adventure to film, and making uninterrupted miles wasn’t giving us what we needed. Fear not, as the gods of motorcycling were lining something up. US52 took us right past some signs for a motorcycle museum. Feeling Old Mother Goose turning, the way a water divining rod leads to water, we were soon rolling through the small, picturesque town of Red Boiling Springs, Tennessee.

Arriving in the parking lot of Cyclemos Speed Shop, we quickly realized it wasn’t open. No worries. We saw signs of life in the workshop out back and pulled the Dennis Gage card. What self-respecting gearhead wouldn’t recognize the mustachioed maverick of motoring television, and before long the owner, Mike Silvio, was giving us a personal tour. Packed full of the most interesting and eclectic collection of vintage motorcycles, largely American, we enjoyed a fascinating hour of Mike’s time learning about his collection, restoration shop, and plans for the future. Located in one of the most charming small towns in America, and filled with awesome machinery from across the decades, this should be a destination spot for any motorcycle tour to this area.

Roaring on, with Dennis wanting to make our evening destination before dark, we picked up I-40 to make time and found ourselves at the Inn at Evins Mill in plenty of time to work. With comfortable rooms, a fascinating Grist Mill to tour, and grounds to walk in, it made the perfect end to our first day. The bikes were doing fine, except for the R60 weeping some fork oil, we weren’t fighting, and we were on schedule. Could we keep it up for another three days?

I was growing quite fond of the “Old Mother Goose” V7 out on the road.

Pulling out into a light shower of rain, Dennis was chipper as could be, having risen before dawn to fix the leaky fork. Perusing his trusty manual the night before, he had it figured out, made the repairs, and buttoned everything up before the rest of us had struggled out of bed. Joining us for a superb full course breakfast, we overate, saddled up, and rolled out of the Inn bound for the Appalachian Mountains. With 280 miles on the trip ticket for the day, and a lot of climbing, twisting and turning to do in these peaceful mountains, we needed to put some long stints in the saddle. This meant filming was kept to a minimum, and we just got to ride.

The quality of the road surfaces here was exemplary and the old bikes were making hay. Eighty miles into the Appalachians we crossed into Georgia, before turning east on US 76 bound for South Carolina. Coming down out of the higher mountains, we enjoyed some spirited riding as we pushed the old vintage bikes to their limits. Dennis had the handling and cunning but the least power. I had the power, but the worst handling and brake set up, and Sam had the slickest machine, but the least experience. It made for a wild and crazy time pitting our wits and machines, and forced me to wonder a few times what goes on in Dennis’ head sometimes as we raced south. Rolling along on some flatter roads as the sun scorched the fields beside us, we eased off and found our way to our bed & breakfast for the night, the Fieldstone Farm Inn, South Carolina.

In my blog, I described the place as “bizarre with a capital weird,” so let’s just leave it at that.

Day three was the day I really found my vintage motorcycle mojo. Blasting into the misty morning, my bones seemed to have settled into the right place to fit naturally on Old Mother Goose. I no longer kept trying to use my left foot to change gear or desired disc brakes, and had completely arrived in the moment. Dennis seemed to have come to the same place as noticed by his unusual calm, and the day just flowed perfectly. Riding through South Carolina it is evident the standard of living here is lower and the roads are a lot rougher, but the people we met were fabulous, and finding an authentic diner for lunch in Evans, Georgia, we piled into the next adventure.

We were “Trippin in America” for the first time, and everywhere we rode people recognized Dennis. So, lunch is taken in the mayhem of photos, autographs, email swaps, and general madness. Sam’s has lived with this his whole life, but it was a fun new adventure for me. Putting us a little behind schedule, we finally tore ourselves away to find a place for Dennis to do a phone-in interview with a local television station.

Historic and beautiful Savannah, Georgia! This praline shop is amazing.

This was taken care of in a tiny, near-deserted town called Register, Georgia, before we rode into the blackest, heaviest rain clouds we had seen during our Trippin adventures. And for anyone who has followed the series, we have an excellent record at finding rain. Hitting I-80 with full wets on, it wasn’t long before it started, and we splashed our way toward Savannah, wondering if the torrential rain was going to affect our old steeds.

Arriving in this fascinating city around twilight, as the rain abated and the low hanging trees dripped water from their saturated limbs, we headed out along the river to play tourist. Huge ships ply the waterway, tourists walk the cobblestones, and Dennis stopped many times for fans to get his photograph. Rumbling along past historic buildings, and tended gardens with the sweet smell of Jasmine in the air filled us with a sense of mischief. It was long past midnight by the time we finished with interviews and dinner so we could retire to our uncharacteristically plush accommodations at the stately President’s Quarters. I think Dennis was trying to make amends for the previous night’s strange choice.

Our last day on the road was our first day with the Riding Into History crew, and we met them on the other side of a ferry ride across the St. Johns River in Florida after a 131-mile non-stop blast through rain and storms. There was a gang of riders waiting who led us through the most scenic of routes to the World Golf Village just outside St. Augustine. Riding with a fascinating collection of vintage bikes from Japan, England, Italy, and Germany, we knew we were in for a treat at the show. As we savored the last few miles with our gracious escort, the sense of excitement at having pulled of over 1100 miles in four days on vintage bikes was overwhelming. We had enough footage in the can for another show, had another incredible adventure, and still had a couple of days left at the event to bask in the sunshine and enjoy one of the best vintage shows in America. This could take another article, so for now I’m going to end here. Stay tuned for our next episode here on Road Dirt, and whenever common sense is getting ready to nix your next adventure, ask yourself-

“Could you live with yourself if you didn’t do it?”

Neale
*Top photo- outside a classic Deep South diner. Pure Americana.