The Sport Tour

The Sport Tour

Jeff Hughes

The early morning air is cool as we head down the mountain, leaving behind the rented condo which has been our base of operations for the last few days. John Holt is in the lead, as usual, followed by Kevin Hawkins and Dave Sulser, three of my long-time riding buddies. Behind them comes new-guy Scott, who I warned last night about the tighter, technical roads we’d be hitting further south – and counseled that as the pace sharpened on those to not try and stay with the guys in front – unless he wanted to crash. I bring up the rear, and so have the advantage of being able to watch this conga line as it snakes down the serpentine road.

Down in the relative flat of the valley – rolling terrain is actually more apt, since there aren’t any really straight roads here in the Potomac Highlands of West Virginia – and we turn south, towards breakfast at the state park an hour a way. I’m hungry for more than just the promise of eggs and sausage.

The first hour of the day, with the sun hardly over the horizon, is always a gift. Everything is fresh and clean - most especially your senses. Today will be hot, and we might even get some thunderstorms this afternoon, but right now the air has that sultry, smooth-like-velvet coolness which feels so seductively good. It puts you in mind of perfection: of perfect roads, ridden with perfect companions. That’s how you end up with perfect days.

Snaking south at an even 70mph has an effortless quality. It feels like we’re floating as we crest the hills and bend through the turns. Wisps of vapor tack off the hillsides like slow-moving ghosts, last vestiges of the fog which would have enshrouded this valley last night.

The sharply-slanting sun casts deep, bluish-dark shadows into the roadside along our left flank. That adds a bit of an edge to the ride as we pass through, watching for deer. More than once over the years we’ve had one bound across the road in front of us. Coming back in the afternoon we might add ten to our pace.

Then we’re there at the foot of the mountain. The first one of the day and one of my favorites. Rolling into that first hard right-hander and suddenly feeling the suspension and tires firm up, that feeling of gravity suspending itself, is the elixir. My focus instantly sharpens and I become absorbed in the task at hand – another gift, this concentration, maybe the only thing I ever do where I’m totally lost in the moment.

The road here has small bits of positive camber, smooth, subtle undulations in the pavement which give a rider advantage, and I deliberately place my lines so as to catch those. And there’s that rising: My heart beating faster to match the ascent, exultation growing with every curve.

Then we’re over the top and flying down the other side, the descent dropping us onto the eastern side of the mountain. As we round the first cork-screwing right-hander the panorama of the valley below opens up to us. Lifting my eyes from the road for a moment, I’m jolted by the sight: A broken tapestry of cottony clouds lies below us, at turns flashing yellow where it is lit by the sun or blue where it lies in shadow, interspersed by the odd tiny farmhouse or barn far below. The vision is arresting enough – it’s not everyday that you get to ride above the clouds - that I roll out of the throttle so I can continue to gaze at it.

You can’t look at something like that and not be put in mind of larger things. You’re reminded of how some things are timeless, that some things are forever a mystery.

Reluctantly turning my eyes back toward the road, I smile slowly to myself.

Most of us get our sport riding fix in measured doses – the several hours on Saturday or Sunday that we’re able to get away, with maybe the occasional track day during the week thrown in for good measure. If you’re like me, that’s not nearly enough. No matter how great a ride I might have on those days I almost always come back wanting more. Even after having ridden half a dozen or more hours, sitting there on my deck on a summer’s evening, cold beer in hand and a couple of yet-to-be read motorcycle magazines in front of me, the distant sound of motorcycles down on the road still tugs at me. That feeling of never ever quite being sated is probably healthy in terms of sustaining interest in the sport for many long years. But, still, it leaves an ever-present ache; a desire that never seems to be fully fulfilled.

So it’s nice, now and again, to give rein to those impulses. To cut a big, fat slice out of the sport-riding pie. To, just occasionally, get to know what it’s like to truly have our fill of riding. How?

The sport tour.

As its name suggests, the sport tour combines attributes of both sport riding and touring. For most of us it means mapping out a route across the curviest countryside we can find, seeking escape in both the road and the landscape. And the very breadth of that opportunity, the multitude of adventures it promises, gives rise to dimensions of the sport that simply don’t exist in our regular I’ve-got-a-few-hours-and-then-I-need-to-be-home rides.

Think of it as sport riding on steroids.

The first difference is one of the most important: The very roads that are open to us. Since sport touring by its very nature is a multi-day event, it affords us the opportunity to reach out and ride roads that are too far to get to otherwise. For some guys, those - like my buddy Jay in Florida - who live in areas bereft of good riding roads, a longer trip is the only opportunity they have to ride the good stuff. But even for those of us blessed to live in places rich with good roads, a sport tour gives us a chance to extend those choices. And there are few things as delightful as discovering a terrific new road, or re-discovering an old friend of one that we haven’t seen in awhile.

Of course, traveling long distance means having to pack a lot more stuff – extra clothes, foul weather gear, tools, maybe even camping gear if that is the chosen end-of-day venue. And those choices need to be made judiciously – nothing messes up the handling of a motorcycle quicker than adding too much weight. But even going through the process of selecting and packing gear is exciting. There’s something immensely satisfying about pulling together the stuff you need to be self sufficient, even if it’s only for a few days. It harkens back to those nomadic impulses of our long-ago ancestors.

Through all of it – through all of the planning and preparation and the talking of the trip with our buddies – runs a thread of anticipation. It lends an air of excitement which subtly colors your world in the days and weeks ahead. During the work week I always look forward to the weekend, to all those day rides which are so important to me. But on those periodic occasions when I have a sport tour coming up, there’s a tinge of something else, a bit of extra magic in the air. Kind of like a kid waiting for Christmas.

Eventually the day of departure arrives. The leaving always has a crisp sort of feeling to it, a delight in finally getting to what seems to be a great adventure. And then you’re in it, riding, moving across the landscape, and suddenly awash in the multitude of things which attend to life on the road: The taste of hot coffee in the early morning light, the best coffee you’ll ever drink; mounting up while the air is still cool, still laced with the morning’s mist; burning off a quick half-tank before breakfast; having the road – a really good one – almost to yourself for a few precious hours; being on your game, because finding that groove, that rhythm, is a lot easier when your rolling miles everyday; seeing everything with fresh eyes, because you don’t live here and haven’t been dulled to what’s around; the exultation of a road run well, knowing there are many more to come; the surprise when that little line on the map that you didn’t expect much of turns into a delight, one more little secret to tuck away; the laughter and the camaraderie, regaling each other with our own unique versions of this shared experience.

And then, of course, there’s that thing of just being out in the world. I mean really being in it. Motorcycles, being exposed to the elements, have long been touted as giving one a far more intense experience than our automobile-bound brethren ever see. Which is true, of course – up to a point. But I’ll be the first to admit that I might bag a regular Sunday ride if the weather turns nasty the night before. And in any case the 4-8 hours I might be out on those day rides sharply limits what I’m likely to be exposed to. When you’re out for several days at a time, though, and especially considering the micro climates which often seem to exist in mountainous areas – the range of weather possibilities that you’re going to be exposed to suddenly gets a lot broader. There’ll be heat, there’ll be cold, and there’ll be rain.

Which is fine with me. Because that’s the way the world is. I figure we ought to experience that stuff now and then. Besides, there’s nothing that will make you appreciate clean, dry pavement like having run for some hours – or days - in the rain. That wet stuff will give you a nuanced understanding of traction like nothing else will.

And, finally, there’s that wonderful downtime at the end of each day, relaxing with whatever your favorite beverage is as the aches and pains of a long day of riding slowly melt away; rewinding the hours just-passed in your mind, a few more memories for the archive; and wondering what the morrow might bring. You’re tired, but it’s the very best tiredness I know.

In the end, I think that heading out on the road for a few days is the very epitome of motorcycling, the highest form of our sport. It’ll put you in a place - physically, mentally, and emotionally - that few people in this modern world of ours ever really get to experience anymore. And it provides that rare opportunity to, finally… get enough miles.

So pull your maps out, talk to your buddies, and - as they say in that commercial – just do it. You won’t be sorry.