For sale: 2019 Honda Africa Twin (manual)

I bought a brand new Africa Twin on the spur of the moment this summer to be able to do a trip out to the Cabot Trail (ride report to come). What an awesome bike! Tons of power, lots of fun, and a real step up from flogging my WR250R (which I'm keeping, btw).

I've also decided the Twin is way more bike than I want, so I'm selling it even though I've added over $1000 of high quality accessories and have less than two weeks of riding on it (under 6000km). My loss, your gain.

You can see the sale posting and more pics here. If you've followed my blog at all, you know that I like to look after things! It's a very clean bike, it runs perfectly, and I've looked after it.

Update February 7, 2020: Bike is sold! I've ordered a new Tenere 700 for delivery in late summer. Can't wait.

Continental Divide ride - Part 13

Part 12

Craters of the Moon National Monument was one of the most desolate, unforgiving, yet exhilarating sections of the entire trip. Aptly named for its volcanic geology and remoteness, the area once served as an astronaut training ground for the Apollo moon missions and a centre for nuclear research. Our destination, the small town of Arco, was the first community in the world to be lit entirely by nuclear energy. It's a remarkable achievement considering the town's humble origins as the junction between two stagecoach routes of the Oregon Trail during the wild west era. 

Increasing smoke haze to the north, and ominous fire reports suggested our route north could be in doubt. Topped up with gas, we had to make it through about 125km of remote dirt dual-track with no water, services or human habitation should things go wrong. The combination of heat, dust, and elevation of 5900' amplified our fatigue and reduced our patience. Yet, we were excited by the line of black on the horizon that hinted of the lava fields we'd be crossing.

Sage brush dotted the landscape, giving way to patches of black basalt that had flowed from 15,000 to as recently as 2,000 years ago, emerging from the Great Rift fault in the crust that transected the area.

The fault line itself is a series of yawning crevices that slice through the plain. It's remarkably visible if you're alert and know where to look. But in low light it would be very easy for an unwary hiker or rider going off road to fall into one of the jagged cracks.

A short detour to the improbably-named Ice Crystal Caves site revealed two explosion craters (Kings Bowl) that were caused by molten lava meeting underground water. The ice caves themselves are nearby and were once a major tourist attraction until 2001, when the operation was shut down for safety reasons. Today there's little evidence to suggest how well-visited this site once was, with concession stands and a visitors centre, although apparently it may still be possible to visit the underground wonders in winter.

The only other people we saw were two researchers from the University of North Carolina. They were performing an aerial study of the landscape to develop a model for understanding geological features on Mars.

They graciously topped up our water bags with ice from their cooler and offered us a beer, but as tempting as it was, the beer would've only increased our dehydration. 

Although the road looked rough, it proved to be a bermed and grippy rollercoaster ride that had us all whooping and laughing in our helmets for many kilometers.

A random stop in the middle of nowhere revealed a survey marker, proof that no matter how much the adventurer you think you are, many feet have stepped before you. 

Our bikes had begun making a disconcerting pinging noise with accompanying vibration, and we wondered if fuel from our last top-up was to blame.

After stopping to investigate, we learned we weren't truly alone: indeed, thousands of grasshoppers leapt from the trail as we passed, causing the pinging noise as they plastered themselves on the lower parts of our bikes. The sheer volume of bugs was impressive.  

The skies darkened more with smoke as we rode north, until all of a sudden the arid desert yielded to green fields from irrigation on the outskirts of Arco.

Much of the town's small centre was deserted, with a gas station/grocery store, restaurant, and motel being the only main signs of activity.

Improbably, a submarine sail decorated a small park, with a fascinating story originating in the town's nuclear history.

Equally unexpected was the Hobbit motel next door, and its proprietor Mike whose stories were as colourful as his rooms.

A retired nuclear safety engineer, Mike now splits his time between running the motel, prospecting, and conducting occasional radiation monitoring studies at former research sites in the area.

With not much else to do in town, we headed across the street to the only restaurant we'd seen and settled in for steak.

Tasty enough when you're famished, if not elegantly presented.

As we ate, I overheard a man and woman at another table speaking with the waitress in what sounded like a New Zealand accent. Having a hunch, I told Pete and Jeff that I bet I knew someone in common with the other couple. (I like playing the six degrees of separation game, especially when traveling.) I figured the only reason someone from New Zealand would be in this area is because of its unusual geology, so I went over to their table and introduced myself. Turns out they're from Wellington, and indeed they are interested in the local geology because the man was in fact a geologist. So I asked if he knew a certain person also in Wellington, who was a friend of mine from school and the best man at my wedding. Indeed, the Kiwi works for my friend at New Zealand's geological survey! Small world it is. I returned to my table feeling pretty smug about my hunch.

Leaving Arco, the lava plains gave way to mountains of the Lost River region and increased smoky haze.

Some twisty gravel roads took us up through burned-out forests that had started to regenerate.

Very little traffic or signs of human habitation in this area. It's one of the more remote regions of the US and you need to come in prepared.

Finally we topped out on Antelope Pass with what would've been a spectacular vista had smoke not obscured the horizon. Not a soul in sight. You could ride and camp in any direction if you wanted.

As we rose and descended into different valleys, the prevailing winds changed the visibility. However, we couldn't be sure if our twisty route would lead us to a temporary road closure, and we knew that this area was subject to active fires. As amazing as the riding was, we couldn't help but feel anxious about whether we'd make it through before fuel range became a critical concern. We debated emergency bailout options at each major intersection.

Hundreds of kilometers of loose dirt riding over the past few days, combined with the heat and smoke, had taken a toll on Pete and Jeff's patience and confidence. Our route along the TAT became a sandy road with long, powdery soft patches that would take you by surprise and threaten to throw you off the bike. To avoid eating each other's dust, we'd spread ourselves out but this resulted in our helmet comms frequently losing contact, and frequent stops to regroup and discuss which route to take. There seemed to be poor correlation between the road markers and our maps, raising some questions about whether our intended route was indeed open, or we'd have to find a way around.  

Soon enough, our luck ran out. One of the hazards of riding this early in the season (July) was that roadwork and repairs from poor spring conditions wasn't all completed. All the more likely in remote regions where there's little traffic to justify the effort and cost. We consulted with locals and a forest ranger about the actual passibility of the road, given we were on dirt bikes and not in cars. The response was mixed, and since we couldn't be sure, we decided optimistically to push on and see for ourselves.

But this was it: the end of the road to Featherville. Much more than a mudslide; the river had changed course and followed the roadbed, washing it out completely with ice, deep water. Even if we could cross through a relatively shallow but long section with baseball-sized rocks and knee-deep water, there was no guarantee that the road would return to a rideable state further down.

And there were massive, fresh bear prints in the mud. Our next intersection was just a few kilometers further, but to get around this obstacle we'd need to deviate south back to the basalt plain, then west then north to skirt around the mountains, a detour of some 100kms. Fortunately we had enough fuel, but it would be tight and it meant partly retracing our path on the loose, sandy surface. For now though, it was time to set up camp at the end of the road where at least we had plenty of clean water to wash out the dust and slake our thirst. Hopefully no bears would come visit us in the night.

Part 14

Continental Divide ride - Part 12

Part 11

Apologies to faithful readers who've waited patiently since May for an update to this adventure story. I was promoted to an executive role at work, and it's consumed most of my energy and time. But I vowed to complete this write-up and fortunately I have notes to work from!

We're in Moab, Utah, enjoying a welcome rest at the halfway point while surrounded by the trappings of civilization again. The oppressive desert heat stood in sharp contrast to the relative isolation and cooler air of the high-elevation backcountry roads from which we'd arrived. The heat ensured little motivation to do much besides hang out on patios, drink beer, and watch people. Imaginations lubricated by booze and heat, we constructed elaborate fantasy back-stories for people we saw in the diverse crowd that meandered past. There was a surprising number of Europeans everywhere, with many languages besides English overheard. Not at all like my prior visits over a decade earlier. Indeed, Moab has become a global tourist destination. One upside of the increased attention is improved food and drink, as we discovered at The Spoke restaurant on the main drag.

An evening hike up one of the nearby canyons revealed dinosaur footprints and a natural arch.

We planned some morning activities for the day we left Moab. Jeff booked a horse riding trip at a dude ranch used for one of the filming locations of Westworld, led by a wrangler who'd guided George Lucas. Pete and I decided to ride up to Arches National Park, where our annual park passes let us bypass the entry line only to have the curious ranger ask a zillion questions about our bikes while we stewed in our suits and another line of traffic built up behind us. Finally we rode in, forming a train with the RVs and other traffic. Best time to visit is early morning when the air is clear and the crowds haven't arrived yet. Brings lots of water, because with the relative humidity hovering in the low single digits, you dry out fast and points of interest that seem nearby are actually much farther away.

After our respective side-tours, we regrouped and resumed our journey on the TAT, which started a short distance north from Arches on a rough dirt side-road that rose quickly above the sweltering canyon below. This was real desert riding!

The dirt wound its way up into ledgy rock sections where we were surprised to see a couple of cars gingerly picking their way through en route to some backcountry trailhead. Finally we reached the mesa and the track opened up to fine, powdery sand.

Having been on relatively solid surfaces for the last few days, riding in sand proved to be a white-knuckle experience for Jeff and Pete, made worse by the oppressive heat and elevation of around 7,000'. Both guys had some low-speed tumbles as they struggled to keep their squirrely wheels under them, and their frustration was clear: Jeff voiced existential concerns around abandoning the TAT altogether in favour of hightailing it north on pavement. Pete just didn't say much at all - his typically understated English sign of discomfort.

The terrain became even more desolate, with even the normally ubiquitous sage giving up hope and abandoning the landscape to sterile dirt. Ominously, now the skies grew dark with gathering storm clouds. Gusty winds picked up and made it clear the storm was headed our way. With zero shelter in sight, getting ourselves out of the way of the impending deluge became an urgent concern. Beyond getting drenched and facing slick mud, we risked becoming lightning rods in the flat, open country.

No doubt, our paths were going to cross with the incoming squall line!

As we tried to outrace and flank the front, the winds whipped up to a frenzy, reducing visibility from dust, making steering treacherous, and almost knocking us off our bikes. We could see lightning strikes approaching just to our side. Fortunately, a series of low mud hills emerged like a lunar landscape, so we quickly parked our bikes and found low spots to hunker down on the ground and wait out the lightning. Our timing was lucky: the worst of the storm surged right over where we'd ridden moments before, yet we hardly saw a drop of rain thanks to the inrushing wind.

Our route now posed two options: Either a couple of days of more desolate desert riding circumnavigating the salt flats to the northwest; or heading more or less straight north up to Salt Lake City where we'd intersect the first option and resume the TAT. Given the heat, fatigue, and frustration, we opted for the paved route north to make up some time, with the hopes of lingering later as we headed further north.

An abandoned section of highway beside the modern interstate became our route. Behind us, the sky was black and sliced by lightning as the storm gained strength and moved through. As we rode the patchy pavement and dodged drifts of tumbleweed, all of a sudden we saw a photographer standing in the middle of the road with his camera on a tripod. It must've been an amazing shot to have the three of us emerge from the maelstrom, headlights blazing, and ride around him.

At a gas stop, now lost in our own thoughts and hardly speaking to each other as we sat on the curb chewing corn nuts and chugging Gatorade, an old guy approached us. He was from Texas, towing a Harley up to the annual Sturgis Rally in North Dakota. After sharing a few anecdotes about our trip, he became absolutely fascinated and amazed by the concept and decided right then and there that he was going to give up on Sturgis next year, sell his Harley, and get into adventure riding. He drove off muttering and shaking his head about his revelation.

Meanwhile, our adventure had become riding the highway through intermittent downpours and gusty winds for the rest of the day, until we reached the gritty mining town of Price, Utah. Filthy, chronically dehydrated, and famished, we sweet-talked the concierge into sneaking a cot into a room on the fourth floor. Although this was apparently against hotel rules, she confided that the hotel owner, a "large woman", was unlikely to notice the cot because she didn't like to go up that high.

Washing our sweaty-grimed riding gear was right out of the question.

Once again, we were ID'd for beer. It's a very strange feeling to be 50 and have to justify that I'm at least 21. Equally strange was seeing a shiny new Tesla supercharging station in the middle of nowhere, lit up like the space-age artifact it is.

Continuing north, the route consisted of more good paved secondary highways through canyons and over mild mountain passes, often following rail lines in the valley below. The scenery looked just like the pictures in Model Railroader that I'd loved as a kid - and I could see why this area stoked the imaginations of model train enthusiasts. Lots of rocky outcrops, tunnels, twisty tracks around mountains, and wild-west buildings to recreate in miniature. I think I know what I want to do again when I'm too old to ride.

We reached Salt Lake City on a Sunday. None of us had been here before, and despite our experience with reading maps, we naively assumed it'd take us only a couple of hours to get through the urban area and reconnect with the TAT.

Of course, it being a Sunday, everyone was in church--of which there was at least one every two blocks in every direction we looked. Crossing the city took the entire day. Although our road was a secondary highway, it passed through the longest low-rise suburban development of traffic lights and big-box stores I've ever seen. Every few kilometers seemed like an exact repeat of the last, like in an old Scooby Doo cartoon where the characters ran through an old mansion and passed the same repeating sequence of chair, curtains, door, and window.

Riding through the downtown Temple area was interesting and I would've like to have stopped and take pictures or even tour some of the buildings. But time pressed us on. We were desperate for some food and coffee, weren't sure if we'd find camping for the night (we wouldn't), and the 200kms of suburb we'd ridden at low speed on deserted streets past closed businesses and full parking lots of churchgoers was playing weird tricks on our minds.

Late in the day, as if by magic, a coffee shop materialized on the side of the road. Incredibly, it was also open--and site of an indelible memory that added to the overall sense of weirdness we'd felt grow throughout the day. While enjoying our unholy stimulants (a.k.a. iced cappuccinos) a family arrived, evidently from church judging by the white shirts and black ties. One of them was a stunningly beautiful woman in a little black dress and heels. As we sipped our drinks on the patio, for some inexplicable reason she proceeded to do an impressive handstand on the wobbly table where her be-suited family sat just across from us. Given her dress and angle, it was an unexpected show to say the least. It was hard not to suspect she was messing with us in some way.

Eventually the suburbs evaporated like our sweat and yet, despite all the open space, there was no discernible camping and nowhere we could stealthily set up for the night. Our only option was a motel in Tremonton. Once again, we had to fill out forms to buy three beers at the gas station to wash down our Wendy's dinner. Back in our room, we watched the movie Dune with Sting striding around in a leather codpiece, a somehow fitting end to Twilight Zone episode of a day.

Heading north, the TAT devolved quickly into desolate rural roads between large fields of mostly safflower which stretched off to distant foothills. Pioneer homes and hamlets - many abandoned long ago - appeared infrequently.

Tough place to make a living and raise a family. It's understandable why religion was so important to giving hope.

It was also tough riding in some spots. Jeff had gone on ahead when we suddenly heard swearing and banging over the comms. Turns out he'd hit a patch of talc-like bull dust and wiped out.

Thankfully he wasn't riding fast, and there was no damage to him or his bike. However, the episode reinforced his suspicion and dislike for dirt riding. We were now in a bit of a quandary, since we still had a lot of dirt riding left to do on this trip, and Jeff had lost his patience for the slower pace and technique required to navigate loose surfaces. Pete and I continued along the dirt side roads, while Pete opted for the main paved route, and we met up at key intersections.

Nevertheless, we were now headed towards Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho, an appropriately-named desolate area of wilderness. Moreover, we were starting see signs of the summer's terrible forest fires in the distance, and sometimes caught a whiff of smoke. It was becoming questionable whether we'd even be able to follow our planned route north.

Part 13

Not dead!

Work and family matters have taken me completely away from two-wheeled fun for the past 6 months, but I do plan to continue posting soon, now that the weather's crappy again and more likely to keep me inside. Thanks to the concerned Internet strangers who asked if everything was all right!

Continental Divide ride 2018 - Part 11

Part 10

Gonna have to wrap up this story soon: the 2019 riding season has started and time for new adventures!

We were in the middle of the Colorado Rockies, having just ridden west over Tincup Pass. Before us lay the highest peaks of our trip, and with excellent weather, bikes working perfectly, and skills mostly dialed, we were all pretty stoked with anticipation about finally crossing over the Rockies and down into the Utah desert.

The ghost town of Animas Forks offers a couple of exits past its remarkable mining ruins, one being the technical and nerve-wracking Engineers Pass (12,800') and the other being California Pass, which at 12,930' was the highest point of our journey. At this elevation, there's about a third less air to breathe. The loss of horsepower in both body and bike was tremendous for us sea-level dwellers: simple actions required planning and concentrated effort to avoid getting winded at a critical time.

With storms casting lightning onto Engineers, we opted to stick with our plan to cross California Pass. Even at these elevations, countless signs of mining activity dotted the mountainsides.

Working our way up the side slope, Jeff somehow stalled in a ditch after he stopped for a picture. At this point the combination of steepness and low power required me to noodle my way up in first and sometimes second gear. So with Jeff stuck well behind Pete and me, I didn't want to risk ditching my own bike by riding back down, so I walked the hundred metres or so to rescue Jeff. In my riding gear, it took all I had to muscle him and his bike into a stable upright position so he could get his foot off the brake and gun it up out of the ditch. Any less fit and we'd've left him there as eagle bait.

The top of the pass was a narrow saddle with a short hike up to a lookout. I'm gonna say the lookout  rounded up the elevation to an even 13,000'.

The road down from the pass included an impressive switchback that hit about a 45 degree angle on the inside corner.

Right away we climbed up again to the appropriately-named Corkscrew Pass, another superb ride with a short and steep uphill followed by a long, rollercoaster downhill into forest.

This descent revealed some important limitations of our loaded 250's. I'd ridden on ahead, using the engine and both brakes to keep my speed under control on the loose, steep grade which probably sustained 25% in places. Noticing the guys weren't close behind, I pulled over to wait only to find that my rear brake pedal suddenly did nothing, plunging down with no resistance. I should've paid more attention to this; I thought maybe I'd just missed the pedal with my boot. After waiting a bit, still no guys, so I turned around and rode back up the climb. Turns out Pete and Jeff had pulled over because Pete had no brakes whatsoever. Fortunately he hadn't had a runaway--there was no safe way to stop except by crashing into the uphill side. A liter of water poured on his rotors blasted off in steam, but cooled things enough that we could resume our descent, this time focusing on using more engine braking than before. That descent was so much fun: technical, flowy, blind corners. On an unloaded bike it would've been a complete blast.

The trail intersected the Million Dollar Highway, a staggering engineering achievement from the days before heavy road equipment. Here we debated our options for camping in the trailhead parking area, not too impressed by the gloomy and wet conditions. Instead, we opted to head down to Ouray, where there was a campground. Unfortunately--and after winding our way halfway back up the mountain to the campground (which was well above the actual town)--we discovered it was completely booked up. Would've been nice if they'd posted that at the entrance road on the valley bottom.

At least we got to enjoy the spectacular views heading back up the Million Dollar Highway to where we'd come from. This road and should be on any riding bucket list for North America. Hard to imagine the narrow track it used to be, hacked into the cliffside with no guard rails.

Today the road still requires your full attention to avoid running off the edge into the gorge.

If you look closely at the historic sign, you can see a picture of the old toll bridge over the falls, now replaced by a modern bridge at the same location.

Not far from here intersects the road down from Engineers Pass, carved into the side of the cliff at a ridiculous angle. It's probably only viable in one direction (down?) and I wouldn't recommend attempting it on even an unloaded bike unless you're a highly skilled off-road rider. It's not just the terrain you need to worry about; there are endless processions of Jeeps and UTVs to work around. Space is really tight, single file is often the only safe option, and reversing is either not possible or recommended.

Heading back to the Corkscrew Pass trailhead, we found a dismal "campground" which was really just the remains of Ironton, an old mining town.

Serenaded by semis grinding down the highway beside us, we barely managed to set up camp in a parking area before the skies opened up.

The water in this area is bright red from the tailings piles and we didn't use it for anything. There are no facilities at this location: no drinking water or toilets. Not a great campsite, but it got the job done. 

The next day, with all our gear soaking wet, we headed back to Ouray for breakfast in the sun, although we didn't stick around. It was early in the morning and we were concerned about making time that day, since we had to cross Ophir Pass (11,114') and make a detour to Telluride to pick up replacement back tires we'd ordered and had shipped ahead.

We continued south on the Million Dollar Highway, again passing countless mine sites and skeletal ghost towns in every direction you looked. In the 1800's this whole valley was one of the richest mining areas in the world, and it must rung with the sounds of industry from stamp mills, steam engines, blasting, and rock slides.

The climb to Ophir was easy...

...but the descent was surprisingly challenging.

Lines of Jeeps worked their way up towards us, requiring patience to wait until they passed since there were few places to pull over. The scree clattered like broken dishes under our tires, grabbing the front wheel and causing it to slide like a toboggan in places. Two guys on big ADV bikes who were heading up towards us stopped to chat, and admitted to being quite nervous and struggling with traction on the climb. Jeff was at his limit and Pete was even more quiet than usual on the slope. At this elevation, tasks that are relatively easy at sea-level become a lot harder because you tire out faster. The steep drop-off doesn't boost confidence, either. Nevertheless, a posse of dumbass and unskilled MX riders came blasting up past us, out of control with feet bouncing off pegs and barely staying on the trail. Complete lack of judgement, and we froze with horror watching a couple of the kids nearly send it 100% off the side as they tried to avoid each other and the traffic.

Eventually the trail yielded to paved roads, and we followed the traffic to Telluride, a bustling resort town frequented by rich and clueless glitterati and their spoiled children. Again we felt like complete bums and were completely unaccustomed to the crowds. The UPS store where we'd had our tires delivered was in the middle of town where all parking was prohibited and there was no good spot to do a tire change. A short ride to an industrial park outside of town revealed a tire shop where the crew graciously gave us access to their compressed air and took our old tires.

Three new rear tires went on without a flat or hassle, helped by the heat and motivated by storm clouds gathering in the distance. We'd expected to reach Moab with our original tires and, judging by the wear to date, would have done so with acceptable life left on them. But we weren't sure what to expect for wear after completing the mountain passes and riding through extended heat, so we'd ordered these tires a couple of weeks earlier just in case. There's always extra mileage beyond the planned route, so better to swap earlier rather than risk baldies or a flat in the upcoming desert sand and heat.

Sure enough, the skies opened up minutes after finishing our change. Pete forgot to grab his Galaxy phone that he was using as a GPS on his bike. The deluge pretty much ruined it, and he lost all his photos. As a consolation prize, we met three other riders taking shelter with us. One was a Brit from the next town over from where Pete grew up in England. Small world indeed!

This was one of the few times on the trip that we rode in rain. And rain it did. But the new knobbies felt awesome, giving us one of the best dirt rides on a deserted road heading west from the Divide. Few people out here, far from the usual tourist destinations.
 

A mostly deserted campground at Groundhog Reservoir provided shelter to cook eat as more storms moved through. Zillions of hummingbirds squawked and buzzed all around us, landing on our tents, bikes and gear.

Now Utah was just around the corner, and with it new levels of heat, remoteness and roads surfaced with ball-bearings. Somewhere out here we left the Colorado BDR and picked up the Trans-American Trail, which we'd be following north for the leg of our trip through Utah.

Crossing the appropriately-named Dolores canyonlands south of Moab, the roads abruptly switched from the winding dirt of the Continental Divide's foothills to the arrow-straight asphalt of the lower desert plains, passing through a few dismal, poverty-struck towns and old farms dotted with abandoned homesteads. It's tough, dry country. Temperatures soared into the high 30C, with no shade and a hot wind. Eventually our route found its mojo again, winding up into the mountains overlooking Moab. With the temperature dropping back to a sane 24C at the higher elevation, and blissful shade from pines, it was a sharp contrast from the desert floor below.

Then the slickrock appeared. Nearby was Porcupine Rim, one of the all-time best mountain biking trails in North America which I've ridden twice.

Finally we reached Moab. After all the day's grime and sweat we craved a cold beer, but what we needed to do was change our oil. Unable to find our initial destination (Arrowhead Motorsports - it didn't seem to exist at the address shown on our Google Maps) and grumpy with fatigue and lack of beer, we headed to Mad Bro Sports who at least had the motorcycle stuff we needed, graciously gave us cold water, and let us change our oil in their service lot. 3500km into our trip, and now that we were heading back north, also a psychological turning point.

Moab makes a great rest stop, and that's exactly what we did for a couple of days, enjoying the AC in the fancy Apache Inn and washing clothes. But what about those beers? They proved harder to get than we ever anticipated, thanks to draconian Mormon laws that I don't recall being such an issue when I was last here eleven years earlier.

Part 12