Huntsville the hard way: First cross-country trip and the lessons learned

Riding a motorcycle has taught me that I can push myself beyond my comfort zone and learn where my true limits are, then expand upon them. These are not really one-time lessons, either. In fact, they’re lessons I continue to learn time and again.

When the opportunity arose last summer to take an extended road trip, the obvious answer was “Yes!” I had to relocate from northwestern Wisconsin to Huntsville, Alabama, for work, and my employer mandated I take my PTO. The wheels in my head started turning, trying to see how I could make moto-lemonade out of some COVID lemons.

A plan took shape. Ten days, 4,000 miles. Huntsville, the hard way.

As a fairly new rider, the one thing keeping me from hitting the road, though, was myself — questioning whether I could undertake a trip like this. Indeed, this was not the first opportunity I'd had to take a long road trip. Many spring breaks and the summer after college graduation had come and gone, and over and over again I canceled grand plans for a multi-state road trip. I always found a reason not to go. Trips like that are for "real motorcyclists" on touring machines or adventure bikes, I imagined, not for regular Josés like me. I'm just a rain-or-shine commuter, at best. Most of the riding I’d done was back and forth between campus and my parents’ house, with a couple of weekend trips thrown in.

I wanted to go but doubts swirled in my mind.

"What if I get lonely?"

"What if I wreck miles from civilization?"

"What if I get sick or tired and just want to give up?"

So many things could go wrong, but I decided I had canceled enough trips. Now was the time to do it and I had to find a way to fully commit. I convinced a buddy who lives in San Francisco to meet me in Walden, Colorado, and ride the Continental Divide southwards before parting ways to our respective sides of the country. I would never be the guy who backs out of the ride at the last minute, and I knew my friend wouldn’t bail. I was committed.

One by one, I squashed my doubts. Touring requires a touring bike? I have a trusty Kawasaki KLR650 that’ll carry me just fine. Hotels are expensive? Bring the camping gear! But there’s a pandemic going on! My helmet and gloves pull double duty against crashes and viral attacks. I laid out a route with help from a friend, avoiding interstates while making sure to hit some interesting places along the way. The plans were set, Wisconsin to Alabama by way of Colorado!

After the movers carted away everything (relocating for work, remember?), I stuffed my camping gear and enough tools to rebuild the KLR into some throw-over saddlebags and an old top case I had lying around. Since I wanted to try my hand at GPS-free navigation, I made sure to print out maps of my route, and brought along a full-size road atlas.

First adversity, first lesson

As I hit the road, a cocktail of emotions assaulted me. The freedom of the open road and excitement for the trip ahead were there, of course, but they were smothered by a wet blanket of fear and dread. "What the hell am I doing? I don’t have to do this!"

Snapping some film photos at gas stops reminded me that this is all supposed to be fun. My first night camping near Pipestone National Monument went off without a hitch and left me excited and refreshed for the next day. I looked over my route for the day and felt anticipation building for the rest of the trip. It’s just like a weekend overnighter, but instead of turning back home, you keep going!

The excitement was short-lived. The weather forecast went from clear and warm to wind and rain for the rest of the day. This was exactly the kind of thing I had been worried about. Getting run off the road, hypothermia, having to dry out all my gear; so many reasons to not continue.

Something clicked in my brain though. This was a chance to test my mettle and see what I was made of. I suited up in my FroggToggs and rode straight into the storm towards the South Dakota state line. I must admit, it felt pretty badass to ride into a storm. That feeling didn’t last. Seven miles in, the wind had shredded my rain gear. Ten miles in, I was soaked to the bone. If I had ATGATT jumped into a pool, I would not have been more wet than I was on those laser-straight South Dakota farm roads. I must have missed the “Last anything for 100 miles” sign because what followed was about 150 miles of cold rain, wind, and some of the most profound life questions I’ve ever pondered. What the hell was I doing?

Then it happened. Like something out of a Hollywood movie, the rain stopped, the clouds broke and the sun started shining. I felt the delicious rays hit my face and warm my skin through the tattered rain gear. In that moment, everything melted away. I was at the top of the world and all the hardship had been worthwhile. The sun and the wind dried my clothes and I rode into and across Nebraska. In Nebraska National Forest, an otherworldly sunset awaited me, followed by some of the best sleep of my life.

Sweeping panoramas and haunting views of towering buttes signaled that the long-awaited Rockies were drawing near. But more frustration was lurking. The area in Poudre Canyon where I planned to camp that night was plastered with "NO CAMPING" signs. As the sun set and I continued along the road, my mind continued down the proverbial path of "I bet I'll find a spot to camp just around the bend." Frustration turned to panic as the pavement turned to gravel, then mud, then a rutted jeep trail. A water crossing in the dark proved to be my point of no return. Right as I resolved to give up, I spied a clearing with a previously established campsite and a fire ring. I set up my hammock and collapsed into it, fully geared up. Surveying the area during breakfast the next morning showed that the gnarly trail I had conquered the night before was just dirt double-track in decent condition.

This cycle of adverse conditions, questioning my sanity, and realizing that not only is it worth it, but it’s the struggle that makes it worth it, proved to be a recurring theme. Frigid temperatures and low oxygen on Trail Ridge Road, roads slick with dead locusts in New Mexico, blistering heat and vapor lock in Oklahoma — these are the things I will remember. These are the things that give the journey flavor and excitement.

By riding to Huntsville the hard way, I learned that without adversity, without a struggle, without pushing myself beyond my perceived limits, I will never enjoy true personal growth. This lesson applies to many facets of life and is a lesson that I have learned and continue to learn through riding motorcycles.

If you’ve considered a longer trip but ultimately decided that it’s too hard or you're not ready or you’re not quite a "real" motorcyclist, I urge you to reconsider. You may find resilience you didn't know you had.

At the very least, you’ll increase your tolerance for being cold and wet!