My Top 5 Favorite Roads and Rides
I’ve spent a LOT of time on motorcycles. Thinking back on the last eight years, the number of miles is close to 90,000, and I inch closer to that 100k mark every day I ride into work (40 miles round trip; almost there!)
You spend enough time in this community and you hear of the iconic rides: the snaking, meandering miles on the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Ring Road in Iceland, the mysterious Road of Bones in far eastern Russia, etc. And so it seems, whether at a random coffee shop in Smalltown, USA or in the waiting room of a Suzuki dealership in Guatemala City, you’re only one or two degrees separated from someone who has “the favorite ride they’ve ever taken.”
In Argentina, I met a Swiss guy - Lukas - who was going on his seventh year of round-the-world riding. He cited his months in Africa as the best miles he’d done.
In Guatemala, I met a young rider named Stefan atop Temple IV in Tikal National Park, who cited the ride from his small town on the east coast of Guatemala to Lake Atitlan as his favorite.
For Celine and Stefaan, the Dutch/Belgian couple I met in San Martín de Los Andes, their favorite stretch of motorcycle road wasn’t a road at all, but the 500-mile stretch of Amazon River they’d traversed from Yurimaguas to Leticia. They said, “It was our favorite part of the journey. It was just so wild!”
And while I’ll always advocate for the “No plan, just ride” approach for any good motorcycle trip - the one where you shut off the GPS, start riding, and ask the gas station attendant, “Hey, what’s cool around here?” - I wanted to highlight some of my favorite stretches of my 90,000+. In no particular order…
US Highway 191: Southwest USA
Starting the list with a bit of Americana, US-191 is a two-lane highway spiking right through the heart of the American Southwest. The entire route runs North-South, starting at the Mexican border in Douglas, AZ and running all the way to Canada near Loring, MT. While I haven’t ridden the entire stretch, I can confidently say that this is a contender for the most scenic single road in the USA. To be able to start at Mexico and end in Canada, and with just a few turns be able to experience the natural, near-spiritual beauty of places like Arches, Canyonlands, and Yellowstone National Parks is something that riders like me yearn for. Some of my finest memories from my two year sabbatical come from this stretch of highway: fording a midnight thunderstorm near the Tetons of western Wyoming, riding the canyons and amongst the towering Douglas Firs of Yellowstone, even picking up the concurrent section of I-90 outside of Bozeman on a 24-hour, 1,000-mile marathon from Calgary to Sturgis. My personal favorite stretch, however, sits just off 191; a small collection of desert towers south of Mexican Hat, AZ. If you’ve seen Forrest Gump, you’ll know what I’m talking about. Monument Valley is one of those views that make you believe in the godliness of the Southwest; the notion that, in spite of your [read: MY] pseudo-agnostic predilictions of your early-mid 20’s, there may be something to this “creator” thing. Don’t believe me? Go. Watch as the sun picks up a paintbrush and flings it across the twilight sky like a heavenly Picasso. You’ll see.
Paso de Cortez: Puebla, Mexico
“You can’t miss it. Just look for the volcanoes.”
That’s what Gary told me. I met Gary, a British ex-pat, outside a Sam’s Club in the University City area of CDMX. Gary was one of more than a dozen hosts I’d met on Bunk-a-Biker: a couchsurfing-type website catering to motorcyclists. He hosted me for a week while I explored the city by day - now one of my favorite cities in the Americas - and entertained me in the evening with stories of moving to Mexico in the 90’s. Did you know that Mexico City has been ravaged by major earthquakes not once, not twice, but THREE times in the last 50 years, ALL of which happened on September 19th? Not me. Not until I met Gary. And it was Gary who pointed me in the direction of this entry. Paso de Cortes is a mountain pass southeast of Mexico City, cresting out more than 11,000ft. above sea level. Did I mention it runs between two active volcanoes? I spent Thanksgiving 2022 climbing up and between these quiet giants - Popocatépetl and Iztaccihuatl. Popo and Izta, for short - Izta is quieter than Popo. Starting from Amecameca on the western side, you climb perfect, loping curves on solid blacktop all the way to the summit, where you’re greeted with remarkable views of the volcanoes. Ash spews from the top of Popo, the same ash you’re about to get very acquainted with. The fun begins on the way down; you’re light-headed from altitude, sliping and sliding on a literal road of ash. At a certain point, you may think, “Sand sucks, but ash is way worse.”
The sun is setting, and your GPS has you some 25 miles from the nearest town. It’s a cold night in November, and you’re still at 8,000ft. You decide to camp for the night, not realizing you’ve ridden onto someone’s property. That man is named Jose, and Jose confronts you with a gun - a rifle that, while not pointed AT you, is certainly pointed TOWARDS you. Once you explain, in broken Spanish and with the help of Google Translate, that you’re traveling to South America and just wanted to camp for the night, he points you to a more private spot, further from the road and potential bandits. He scares the hell out of you 20 minutes later, emerging from the darkness with a bundle of firewood. The kindness of strangers blows you away once more. Your cold night in the Cerros is punctuated with a sunrise to remember, sipping tea in the shadow of an erupting volcano.
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia
I can’t really call this one a road. There aren’t “roads” on the Salar. There are islands. There are lakes, depending on the time of year. Heck - there’s even a Starway to Heaven. But no real roads. The Salar de Uyuni is the world’s largest salt flat, located high on the Bolivian Altiplano some six hours south of La Paz. Open Google Earth and look at South America; the Salar is the little white spot right in the center of the continent. It’s a beautiful, hellish, frigid, sunburnt expanse covering more than 10,500 square miles. The entire playa sits more than 12,000ft. above sea level. Remember the Paso de Cortes? Where I had a gun pulled on me? This is 1,000-feet higher.
And yet, when I think of the most memorable nights on my entire journey, camping out with Dean, a moustachioed Californian headed south on a 1990 Honda Transalp, on that vast expanse of salt is near the top of the list. We met in Uyuni, the nearby namesake city, just hours earlier after chatting for weeks on Instagram. After some pleasantries over coffee and Milanesa de Llama, we hunted down some gas (a pain that immediately outshined the decadence of the llama steaks), and ventured out onto the playa. We stopped for sunset at the world-famous Dakar Monument; a reminder of the 2014 Dakar Rally that brought thousands of riders to the salt flats. From there, we tore across the white blankness. He broke out the tent, and I opted for a jerry-rigged tarp setup off the back of the bike. I typically cowboy camp - no tent, no setup. But with the winds charging across the high plains, I conceded. Waking up in the middle of the night, I exited my sleeping bag into the biting cold to heed nature’s call, I looked to the sky. I could almost shake hands with the Milky Way, mesmerized by the billions of stars looking down at me. I thought two things in that moment: we’re not alone here, and song lyrics.
But tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that Heaven is overrated?
Avenida 106/107: Parque Nacional Huascarán, Peru
When I was planning my trip, I had a recurring dream: I was standing atop a mountain pass a-la “Roll Me Away” by Bob Seger.
I could go east, I could go west; it was all up to me to decide.
The largest mountains I’d ever seen towered above me. I felt small. I felt beautiful. I felt, like I would come to feel many times on the road, like I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that exact moment in time. And since experiencing that while traveling, I thought more than once, “Maybe that’s where God exists? In these moments.”
And it was on a late afternoon ride in Peru that I found the mountains I’d been dreaming of for so long.
Lisa and I had been traveling together for months at that point; falling in love, saying goodbye, and reuniting again. We’d just gotten to Huaraz - the toursim center of the Ancash Region, and for many, the gateway to the Cordillera Blanca, some of the most iconic peaks of the Peruvian Andes. The city itself is one of history, pre-existing the Incan Empire. Lisa and I arrived in Huaraz late after a planned a five-day ride from Chachapoyas that took twelve days. And for the first time in almost two months, we were parting ways for a bit: she was going on a trek, and I was settling in for some R&R. The day she departed, I sat in the loft area atop my hostel, looking north to the ribbon of snow-capped mountains in the distance. The next day, I unracked the saddlebags and departed for the mountains. I could spend hours trying to paint a picture of that day, and I suppose I will at some point, but for now I’ll say this: I felt close to God on that ride. I moved east on Av. 107: a perfect, paved route climbing up and over the Cordillera where I stopped to take in the picturesque landscape. The road summits at Punta Olimpica, a tunnel through the granite walls at more than 14,350 feet: the highest mountain pass of my riding career, and the highest transport tunnel in the world. The air was thin. The thinner the air, the crisper it smells. My chest was tight, and I struggled to breathe all while feeling alive and grateful.
107 descends into the small town of Chacas, where Peruvian abuelas sell cuy (guinea pig) out of burlap sacks and peddle handmade souvenirs to tourists while wearing traditional clothing. The town is cute, and had I not left my bags in Huaraz, I might have stayed a night there.
The ride back west over the mountains was the hard part. Had I researched, I might’ve known that Av. 106 was the rough road; loosely packed dirt and gravel running through rural grazing land. While I spent two hours riding east, I spent four riding west through alpine Forrests and past mountain lakes, all while the pebbles hitting my skid plate and my rattling bones melted together into a twisted song. Shortly after sunset, I emerged through a deep road cut to see the valley open up below. There they were: my mountains. Nevado Huascarán Sur, the tallest mountain in the Peruvian Andes, stood over the land like a king with a snowy crown. Cornices and glaciers draped themselves atop scarred, tattered granite walls. An omnicient god looking over innocent subjects. And across the way, the backside of the Cordillera Blanca - a skyline cutting east to west across the sky. I stood there, taking in the road bellow as a ribbon of hairpin turns before it shoots off like an arrow beyond the horizon. I was at peace.
Bear Mountain Bridge Road: Westchester, NY
Every rider has a place they cut their teeth; the go-to ride that filled numerous Sunday mornings in the Springs, Summers, and Falls of their early riding career. And for many, that holds a special place. Mine is a 7-mile stretch of of Rt. 202 in the Hudson Valley, near Peekskill, New York. Take a look at any online list of “Best Motorcycle Rides near New York City”, and Bear Mountain is there. Sitting some 400 feet above the Hudson, Rt. 202 hugs the contours of this stretch of the Hudson Highlands like a tutu on a ballerina. You start at “The Roundabout”, where on any given day in the summer you’re bound to see a dozen riders or more refreshing themselves with gas station pound cake and Dunkin’ coffee. After climbing up and over the summit, where a parking lot allows for a stop to view the valley, you descend down a beautiful stretch towards the Bear Mountain Bridge, once the longest suspension bridge in the world. You can continue north on 9D toward Beacon, or cross the bridge and explore Storm King and Bear Mountain State Parks. Either way, I spent hundreds of hours on these lengths of highway in the years between buying my first bike and leaving for the mysterious, enticing lands beyond my suburban upbringing, and rarely was there an hour wasted.
Conclusion
In Robert Moor’s book On Trails: An Exploration, Moor explores the what, why, and how of why humans are drawn to trails. He says, “We are born to wander through a chaos field. And yet we do not become hopelessly lost, because each walker who comes before us leaves behind a trace for us to follow.” And it’s this little piece that speaks to why I dove in on my favorite motorcycle trails: this is the trace I give you all to follow. There are some 40 million miles of roads in the world, with more being built by the day. I urge you all to get out there and fill your cups with favorites.