"I’ll do it, if you do it" has always been the driving force behind my closest friendships. As young men, you can imagine the trouble we got ourselves into because of it. But on the flip side, those moments became the most vivid and cherished memories we have. I think we knew at the time what we were doing was cementing our legacies in our minds. While we’re no longer risking our necks with the same reckless abandon, the spirit of that mantra remains. Now, as we enter our mid-thirties and forties, we have started saying things like, “I’m not getting any younger” and “If not now, then when?”
An idea for a ride began with a question that quickly morphed into a dare: "How long do you think it’d take us to ride to all 48 states?" I asked my good friend Steve. He laughed, brushed it off, and we moved on. But over the next four months, I couldn’t resist egging him on, periodically sending him route maps showing the most efficient way to hit all 48. We calculated it would take about two weeks to cover approximately 10,000 miles. Averaging 600 miles a day, we’d be able to touch dirt in every state. One day, without warning, I told Steve I’d put in my time-off request at work.
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We decided to set off in late September. It was starting to get cold but the question “if not now, then when?” lingered heavy on my mind. When Steve arrived at my house the morning of September 28th, on his Moto Guzzi, I hadn’t even packed yet. Steve, on the other hand, was meticulously prepared and ready for all the challenges a cross-country trip might bring. It’s worth noting, within fourteen days, Steve and I would both concede that we each thought the other one was joking about the whole thing until it became real that late September morning.
We didn’t plan anything beyond the miles. There was no time for sightseeing, no time for any real detours. We got off the highways when we could, and most of the time highways weren't even an option. We rode pump to pump, pushing the distance more each time. At first, we stopped every 100 miles, eventually making our way up to 200 miles by the end of the trip. As it worked out, Steve set his cruise control and I handled the directions. So he would stay in front and set the pace and I would buzz ahead on my FJR to signal the turn, then we would resume our positions. It worked well. I don’t want to discourage anyone from taking a trip like this with a group of friends, but we found the less cooks in the kitchen, the better.
Our schedule was as follows:
- Up and out of the tents by 6 a.m.
- Packed and riding by 6:30 a.m.
- Ride 100–150 miles, then stop for coffee.
- Plan the day’s route to cover around 600 miles, aiming for state line intersections.
- Stop for dinner around 5 p.m., then ride another 50–100 miles to find a campsite.
- Tents set up by 8 p.m., asleep by 10 p.m.
We didn’t deviate much for 14 days. There was something blissfully numbing knowing that’s all there was to do each day. The first few days were spent nervously easing into that and by the third or fourth day, we had fully submitted to it. By the second week, we were clambering to hold on to that feeling, as the reality of heading back east towards home, and work, and bills, and the rat race of it all, started to sink back in and taint the pure, empty peace in my mind. To be honest, I’m still grieving from that loss.
With no real plan, unexpected encounters became highlights. One frigid 26°F morning, a gas station attendant in Missoula ran out to ask us where we were from and where we were riding. He excitedly told us that we must ride Route 12 towards the Nez Perce Reservation in Idaho. It was on route to the Washington-Oregon intersection. We happily obliged. Turns out, Lolo Pass is pretty famous and we saw why.
Another memory that sticks out to me is Route 140 East out of Oregon towards the Salt Flats. Long, straight runs through plains and plateaus, and then after a long time of nothing at all, you suddenly come over a hill in the road, and there is a giant, towering cliff wall in front of you, with a road going straight at it. You notice a diagonal line heading up the face of the cliff and soon enough, you’re riding on it. Twists, lumps, turns banked the wrong direction, with no guardrail and gusts of wind that could blow you into the other lane. Height-frightened Steve was crawling so slow by the end of it, I thought we were going to fall over. I was laughing uncontrollably at the absurdity of it all. We took a deep breath at the kite launch at the top, relieved and exhilarated.
Pretty soon it was time to track down a Moto Guzzi service center for Steve’s bike, which we found at Harper's Moto in Kansas City. Seeing that I was near cords on my rear tire brought us through Texarkana trying to find anything that would fit. We continued down into the Mississippi delta, turning back up north into the Smokies, eventually going through the most beautiful place in the country- West Virginia. This on
On our last day, we woke up in Virginia and rode straight home to the Hudson Valley where our friend was organizing a community event that just so happened to feature a slow drag race. We rode right up to the start line, then wobbled our way down the block towards the music coming from the stage at the finish line. We had an impromptu reunion with some of our close friends that happened to be there before taking the shortest and final leg of our trip, back to our families at home.
This country is beautiful and parts of it feel like being on a different planet. One day you’re in dense forests with frost and permanent snow, and the next day you’re in a desert and you don’t see another car or building for over 100 miles. Herds of elk, wild horses on native reservations, groups of antelope, fields of crops for days at a time- all things I've only heard about in childhood songs. I spent the days wondering about it all, and where the humans were that put them there.
If you find yourself facing down a dare to do something out of the ordinary, just remember: If you don’t do it, you won’t have done it– It’s that simple. Then ask "if not now, then when?"
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