Home from a way-too-short week in Bozeman. Thanks to general airport chaos following the plane crash at SFO (the night I was supposed to leave, naturally), it took me more time to fly out than it took my travel buddy to ride. Oh well.
We were backpacking, mostly, but the to-and-fro was all by one fully loaded bike. I had very little interest in motorcycle touring beforehand, and expected to have even less after. I figured that all my longstanding objections to bicycle touring—that the luggage Jenga and weather worries are an unnecessary hassle, that it’s annoying to feel heavy and slow (well, heavier and slower than usual)—would apply with an engine, too.
But for the most part I was pleasantly surprised. It’s true that I’ll never be a volume person: for me, distance for distance’s sake lacks the fundamental romance that it holds for some people. And…
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