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Recently, my sister and I were making less than flattering comments about people that affix their little cartoon family to the back of whatever SUV they use to go to soccer games. Since I’m not married and have no children, I’m a strange bird here in Utah. But I do have a collection of motorcycles, and in some bizarre way consider that to be my family. So for my 50th birthday, my sister purchased the necessary stickers to try to help me blend in with the locals ……. NOT!

I’m sure it’s good for a laugh or snide comment. I’d love to be a little bird in the cars with the “My Kids on Honor Student at …..” crowd.

Rhino

[caption id=”attachment_1754″ align=”alignnone” width=”440″ caption=”Makin' fun of Soccer

If you think you’ve ridden a dirtbike in every conceivable terrain, but have never turned a wheel on slickrock, you’re missing a seriously amazing experience. The Slickrock Trail just outside of Moab, Utah is a mecca for mountain bikers from all over the world. But what most folks don’t know about the trail is that it was originally established by dirtbikers. And to this day, remains unrestricted to motorized two-wheeled vehicles, much to the dismay of some of the pedal-pushing enthusiasts. We were here first bros!

The Slickrock Trail is a 12 mile loop composed of mostly petrified sand dunes. Don’t let the term “slick” fool you, the traction is amazing! 99% of

With real winter looming over the inter-mountain West, I decided to head south for the Thanksgiving holidays and get a last fix of moderate temperatures before acquiescing to the frosty seasonal grip. I drove almost 2000 miles through 4 states, visited old friends, made new ones, freeloaded, camped-out under the stars and wrapped it all around several days of on and off-road riding. Exactly what every motorcyclist should do with free time, especially with some extra days around holidays.

I started my journey headed to Phoenix, but unlike previous trips, which had me skirting the Grand Canyon, weather predictions indicated potentially substantial snow in the high country, so I kept my elevation down and limited my travel to the Interstate. This

We were cleaning house in preparation for Christmas. The decorations were up and, as we stowed away the empty ornament and tree cartons in the garage, we noted some of the other storage boxes gathering dust therein. One of the boxes was marked “motorcycle gear.” It had been sitting in storage for the past 16 years or so. I couldn’t help myself; I brought the box into the house wondering at its contents. The passage of time dimmed my memory of what had been sealed in the mysterious box. So, in essence, this was my first Christmas present of the season.

I opened the box and started rummaging through its contents. The first three items hardly related to motorcycle gear - except in remote fashion. You see, the

While on a recent trip along the Blue Ridge Parkway, I stopped in at the Lin Cove Viaduct Vistor Center gift shop and found this very entertaining warning sign:

I purchased it as a valuable reminder and as fodder for my moto-themed garage.

I fear that many of our brethern have found themselves in this situation with the subsequent unpleasant consequences. I myself have periodocally found myself making mid-corner correction as a result of stunning scenery.

 If you are riding, watch the road. If you want to sightsee, pull over!

Rhino

I am a diehard speed metal head. Not an Iron Maiden, Mötley Crüe, Guns and Roses kind of fan. No, I am at my core a hard core speed metal fan. Nothing is better than putting on some serious miles while listing to some speed metal. Has kept me awake for many an hour as I ripped across a lonely desert at night in the middle of summer to make time and escape the heat.

The Late 90’s and New Decade has not been the best of times for Speed Metal. Speed Metal has migrated off into Industrial and Metal/Goth hybrid music. I have been keeping my grove on listening to System, Manson, NIN, Keep reading >>

Even when Murphy comes to call, the Rising Sun can dispell the gloom.

I was stranded at a gas station in Tres Piedras, New Mexico after a regulator failure on my Ducati 748. Just to set the scene, TP (as it’s affectionately known to locals) is a crossroads in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. There’s a crumbling gas station, a dilapidated restaurant and that’s about it. The nearest “town” is Taos which is about 50 miles away. With no tools to properly troubleshoot a dead electrical system, I assumed it was my battery that had died. After locating/calling a Honda dealer in Taos, who just happen to have the oddball size my euro-scoot required, I settled into that that semi-conscience trance

Several years ago I had a defining moment related to women and motorcycling. I was talking with some coworkers about two-wheeled touring in southern Utah and our resident biker chick, I’ll call her Molly, suggested we combine a ride with attending the annual Shakespearean festival in Cedar City. Not a suggestion you’d expect from a rough and tumble kinda gal like that.

Now I’m not the most cultured soul, but I liked the idea of riding some great roads and combining it with some intellectual entertainment, so I was in. The other riders in the conversation all bowed out with a myriad of lame excuses. So Molly and I made plans to ride the backroads down south, camp in the mountains

Whenever I travel, I try to find a way to enjoy some two-wheeled activity. Whether I beg, borrow or rent, procuring some saddle time is always a priority. On my latest trip back to the Old Dominion (that’s Virginia for those not not familiar with state nicknames), I scored a ride on a bike older than my own riding career. My sister’s recent interest in learning to ride, lead her frugal husband to the acquisition of some classic iron.

The ’77 Honda I rode was very similar to the ’69 original that took the world by storm, catapulting the Japanese motorcycle industry in general, and Honda specifically, to the forefront worldwide. A position they’ve yet to relinquish for more than 40

While looking through some old family photos the other day I came across this gem.

Finally, pictorial proof of my two-wheeled predilection?

This is photo of my Mom and Dad on a Harley two years (1957) before I was born. So upon my discovery I queried Mom about the circumstance and insisted on additional details. Unfortunately, I found out it was a posed photo and they never moved an inch. Oh, well, I can’t blame DNA for my addiction. I guess I’ll just have to accept that I’m a victim of circumstance. Maybe they were thinking about the Harley during conception

 Mom told me her father, my grandfather, rode a motorcycle from his home in Michigan to Texas once. I’ll have to get some confirmation on