~ Auto Buzz ~: Mother Rode: An Epic Road Trip with Mom Riding Shotgun 2,200 miles with Mom on the back seat?!

motorcycle riding on the Golden Gate Bridge

From the September 2007 issue of Cycle World. A familiar, lightly accented voice in my head whispered “Be careful” as I laid out the plan. Pick up a bike in Denver for a week-long trip to San Francisco. With my mother. In my 39th year on this fine planet, it was time to kick back and spend more quality time with family, in this case taking my mom Jackie on her first epic motorcycle ride. Nothing in motorcycling is as intimate as a long ride with a passenger. Hours in close proximity, with shared risks and rewards. I wasn’t sure Mom would be up for such a long trip at 65 years old. When I proposed the idea, though, it took her all of a half-second to say yes, accompanied with a big smile on her face. I knew this was going to be one of those remember-it-forever trips. I pored over maps, fried my eyes looking at Google Earth and chatted with well-traveled friends about the trip. “You’re taking your mom?” some asked, an odd look on their faces. But most got it right away. Mom was born on Pearl Harbor Day in England, lived in India and visited France often as a nursing student, but since moving to the U.S. in 1972, she had never seen the Rockies, San Francisco or points between. Our borrowed 2007 Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Classic packed to the gills, we rumbled away from Denver and breached the Rockies on I-70, chuffing away at 70 mph in sixth gear. The adventure was about to begin. Mom took less than 10 minutes to feel relaxed on the plush back seat of the intrepid E-Glide. It was perfect for this trip; despite my years as a sportbike addict, the lure of a smooth, relaxed touring bike can’t be denied. A fairing, hard luggage, CD player and roomy floorboards, plus the reassuring lope of a big V-Twin. Besides, what better way for a British grandmother to see “the Colonies” than on the back of one of Milwaukee’s finest?

standing in front of the Welcome to Utah sign

Crossing the 10,200-foot Independence Pass outside of Aspen–the dash-mounted air-temp gauge dipping below 40 degrees, rain in the air–threw us both into the discomfort of damp, cold riding. We made it to our hotel in Avon as the soggy numbness of a Colorado night crept into our toes. In that moment, I set our goal to be stopped before sunset for the rest of the trip. Endurance riding and pushing for “just one more exit” may work solo, but with Mom aboard, such personal victories needed to be set aside. We stuck to the Interstate in Colorado for two reasons: 1) to make time and 2) because this is the most beautiful stretch of Interstate in the U.S. Carved through the jutting Rockies, it twists though canyons, slips through tunnels and dips to sweeping 45-mph sections. Vista points and the occasional nearby park had us stopping about every hour to stretch our legs and enjoy the views. At one stop, we both marveled at the engineering, dedication and manpower required to construct this vital artery west. A turn onto Colorado Highway 13 guided us into Heber, Utah, after our first full day of riding. A bon-voyage gift from my sister and brother had us on a sunrise balloon ride out of the Heber airport the next morning. Mom was speechless and close to tears. Ever since seeing Around the World in 80 Days in England as a child, she wanted to fly in a hot-air balloon, something I didn’t know until we took off. On a crystal-clear morning almost six decades later, it finally happened. Her spirits could not have been higher. And I felt pretty damned great myself.

standing in front of the hot air balloon

That was followed by our longest riding day, across Utah into Nevada covering about 450 miles. Through aspen groves, into Salt Lake City and onto I-80, we soon hit the 100-degree mark and made the required stop (okay, for me) at the Bonneville Salt Flats. Later in the week, we rented The World’s Fastest Indian and enjoyed the Burt Munro tale from the air-conditioned comfort of our hotel room. A week after our visit, Chris Carr broke a 20-year-old record, splitting the air at 350 mph. History again. It was time to peel off into the Nevada desert. We cut north from Winnemucca, Nevada, relieved to escape the big-rigs, and started to carve into the openness of interior desert. Descending into a vast valley along the edge of a massive plateau, the mythical Old West was ruptured only by the stretch of asphalt ahead. I had decided not to use a communications system for our crossing–I figured there was so much new to see it would only fuel our conversations at the end of the day. One of the things Mom loved the most on this trip was the natural silence of these remote places. Winding north, we overnighted in Klamath Falls, Oregon, at the Running Y Ranch. At sunset, we overlooked the Arnold Palmer-designed links and up surfaced my dream to destroy a golf course with a dirtbike–only a daydream, I promised Mom. I also promised that our pace would slow and we would take in more sights, an oath fulfilled the next day as we entered Crater Lake National Park and peered over the edge, 1900 feet below to the lake’s cobalt bottom. Mom’s love of nature was evident as we wandered west. Her grin answered my persistent question, “So how are you doing?” She was riding through the pages of National Geographic, only live and in person. Nature in this scale is more than spectacular; it is humbling and inspiring at the same time. To see it through her eyes was a real treat. Several times she was downright giddy, saying, “I can’t believe we are doing this!” Riding the big Harley had become second nature.

The historic Crescent City Lighthouse.

We left Crater Lake at 7100 feet and snaked down Highway 199 into California. The Redwood Highway presented itself beautifully and Mom noted that her normally arthritic neck had become quite free from the constant looking about. We hit the California coast in Crescent City, where we spent the night, awaking to the sea-air breeze and crashing waves. A visit to the historic Crescent City Lighthouse brought up conversations of my Uncle Norman. Stricken with polio as a child, he has become enamored with lighthouses. Collecting stamps, postcards, literature and sharing his passion on the Internet is a hobby that pays no heed to his failing legs. Mom channeled his enthusiasm as we walked up the lighthouse steps.

Paul and Babe at the Trees of Mystery roadside attraction.

We cruised south along the coastline where the grand redwoods were out of scale to us as we landed at the historic 80-year-old Benbow Inn just south of Garberville. The Benbow has become a popular stop for those touring the vast expanses north of San Francisco. Our evening there, complete with sherry served in the appropriately cozy room, reflected Mom’s enjoyment of Victorian style. A walk through the gardens and a quiet sleep prepared us for our final days of riding into San Francisco.

The church used by Alfred Hitchcock in his film The Birds (near Bodega, CA).

Next morning, the magic of Highway 1 was shrouded in coastal fog. Stopping in the breezy mists and peering down the cliffs onto the roiling sea below was eerie, a feeling that continued as we turned off the coast in Bodega Bay. Within minutes, the fog shroud released us into bright blue skies, and I pointed out the church used by Alfred Hitchcock in his film The Birds. Mom told me how 39 years ago, in Dumbarton, Scotland, my father took her to see that scary film to try to induce labor. It didn’t work and I was still a week late. We stayed overnight near there, and the next day she laid her eyes on the Golden Gate Bridge for the first time. The end of our trip was rewarding and sad at the same time, but my British mother had really enjoyed her week riding American iron–certainly more than the airplane seat on the flight home. We had navigated 2200 miles of highway and byway, explored new roads and places, toured through dusty towns, epic valleys, over two massive mountain ranges and into one of the most beautiful cities in America. Along the way, Mom saw endless new sights, met some of my friends and shared in my love of riding. I felt like I had met her all over again. It’s one thing to be a son when you are youngish. Almost 40 years into the transaction, over the course of a week, you learn how much closer you can be. With age comes perspective, honesty and sincere appreciation. I dropped her off at the airport, and as I stowed her helmet and gear into the top case, I heard that familiar voice, this time in person. “I love you. Be careful.” Thanks for the trip of a lifetime, Mom. I love you, too.