Written by and Photos by Scott Canto. Posted in Rides
After years of anticipation and determined preparation, we pocketed the key to our empty D.C. apartment, tossed on our waterproof riding gear, and climbed on our motorcycles. I hit the start button and… click—dead battery. Thus began our epic journey.
Ready, set, click— our epic start.
• Some Context
For the previous three years, my wife Odessa and I had been saving, preparing, and ridding ourselves of possessions to set off on motorcycles. During that time, our KTMs had been stolen and (thankfully) recovered, and we’d spent many sleepless nights afterward wondering whether a thief would try again—so concerned that we stepped up the departure date to the end of summer. Armed with dozens of possible routes, the plan was to head west-northwest with our dog Surak until we ran out of roads, then turn south for the lands of warm winters and cheaper living costs.
Life on motorcycles still has responsibilities—a different set than normal life, but we set off with a list of chores. We found a home for the last of our stuff we were keeping and ventured to South Dakota to establish residency. With no deadlines but autumn looming, we rode through the eastern U.S. and the midwest at a too-fast pace that we had to accept.
Not that there weren’t fun moments—like clearing a trail in West Virginia, riding a creek in Kentucky, the wide-open skies and sprawling, fenceless fields—but truth be told, the riding between the Atlantic and South Dakota was mostly uneventful. We managed to avoid most Interstates and found endless miles of gravel to explore but unlike our first trip across the U.S. years ago, this one was defined by the folks we met along the way.
• We’re Being Followed
It started in West Virginia. Riding on the dregs of Hurricane Ida through the coalfields and squinting through a perpetual drizzle, we missed our turn. Suspecting the truck behind us had been deliberately following us for the last 10 minutes through all of our odd, obviously off-the-beaten-path routes, we pulled over to turn around—and so did the truck boxing us in. The window rolled down to reveal an eager couple who just wanted to talk about their KTMs.
During the chat, we got a sobering call about a family emergency, whereupon our new friends, in an outpouring of kindness, immediately offered anything we needed! After a night at their place and more of their amazing West Virginian hospitality, we managed to sort things out with the family, and continued on our way.
• Gorging Ourselves
Another stop: Famished, we stopped at Miguel’s Pizza next to Red River Gorge, Kentucky, where a fellow rider happily shared his pizza while we waited for ours. He also shared the wonders of pine tar fire starters—bits of wood so saturated with sap that a strike from a Ferro rod causes it to ignite immediately. It was late, so he led us to his go-to campsite, where we found wheelbarrows full of firewood (and where we discovered that Surak doesn’t enjoy riding in a wheelbarrow as much as on a motorcycle. Sorry, buddy!). The next morning, we confidently left our luggage at camp to ride through some Kentucky mud in the rain before moving on.
• The Guided Tour
As we headed westward, we had a pitstop in a small Indiana town. Parked in front of the Rugged Foot, an aptly named shoe repair shop, the owner greeted us and offered to repair anything we might have damaged along the way. Shortly after that, as we sat down at the patio next door for a snack, his son arrived on a KLR, and they joined us. Then came the invitation to pitch our tent, drop our gear, and go for a tour of the area through tunnels, a rocky riverbank, fun windy roads—places we’d never have known about just the following advice from a GPS. Returning late, we were treated to a meal to ensure we were energized for more riding the next morning down more fun roads in their exciting motorcycle playground. When it was time to continue on, they fed us yet again and then escorted us along our way before saying their goodbyes.
• Our New “Home”
South Dakota had us dying of thirst, racing down straight, dusty farm roads, all expertly engineered to align with the afternoon sun. We stopped at the only place around us along an Interstate—a combined bar, restaurant, and motel, and the single employee was also the owner, bartender, and cook. We stayed longer than expected, listening to stories of how COVID had changed life and how politics had a profound effect on a tiny stop along this lonely road. But before we set off to our campsite, he gave us an amazing picnic of brisket, bread, chips, and a Tupperware set of homemade BBQ sauces. We rode to our campsite and, before anything else, plopped down on the grass to enjoy the beautiful pairing of an unexpected dinner and the bag from a butchered box of wine that was bungeed to the bike.
Despite its low population density (46th overall), South Dakota was where we had the most chance meetings. The city park in White River, SD, doubles as a free campground—convenient for us, since we had our passports overnighted to the local post office. It was then we realized that overnighting something with the USPS doesn’t necessarily mean that it will get there overnight… or even the second day!
Conveniently, the only tavern for miles was located right across the street from the city park. A wonderful kind of place, too, where everyone knows everyone, and you have to politely decline offers of shots from the local drunk. Our campsite in the park was our home for the evening but also doubled as our refuge from a nasty afternoon thunderstorm about to hit. A local rancher overheard our plight and offered up a house he normally rented to hunters. And more offers to help didn’t end there. Despite being sparsely populated, the hospitality we received in South Dakota was huge.
On a riding-related side note, we’d heard whispers of brutal dirt roads around us but couldn’t find any despite the hundreds of miles we’d already ridden. That was… until it rained. That nearby house we’d been offered—a paltry four blocks away—was decidedly not on a dirt road, rather a three-lane mud fest!
When we reminisce about the first leg of the trip, we rarely reference our memories by time, route, or even the places visited; rather, it’s all ordered by those we met along the way.
This is hardly a novel revelation; it’s actually the typical experience of travelers, especially motorcyclists. I can’t say exactly what changed, but until this point, at least for me, motorcycling had been a solitary endeavor.
Maybe riding with my partner changed that perspective, or maybe it was knowing there was nothing to go back to and that everything we had was clamped, tied, and bungeed to the bikes. Whatever the reason, the great people, and the kindness of others, in general, were the highlight of our trip.
• Freedom
Leaving South Dakota was the turning point. Free of administrative obligations and deadlines, and with temporary driver’s licenses in hand, we began wandering. We explored an old bombing range peppered with rusted shells of cars from the 1960s, rode the Badlands, dodged cows, and confronted bulls. We saw Mount Rushmore and encountered an unexpectedly-early frost. We also began to discover that, given freedom, our natural tendency is to drift towards trouble— but isn’t trouble just a synonym for adventure?
