Permutations

This was probably bound to happen sooner or later, so there's not much point being mad about it. Rather, let's figure out what is happening and what to do next.

The issue at hand is a growing sense of unease, a slight and barely noticeable condition that has crept up recently and makes us feel a bit... bored. This is a bad omen, as the initial (rushed) conclusion is that we've seen all there is to see around these parts and that it's all over, this place is done.

This is true, at least in part and I had experienced something similar after years riding across Tuscany, to the point where boredom became nausea. Yes it's all so picturesque and people come from all over the world to see the cypress-lined driveways and fields of golden wheat, the villas, bloody Florence and the coastline towns and beaches. But... it's also very dull after a while. Umbria and Marche are a bit better, but nothing compares to Abruzzo, our mountain haven. Yet we must confront the fact that we've been exploring these lands for the past eleven years now and with very few exceptions (the Majella park and Campotosto), there's no longer that feeling of awe and spectacle there was before.

Instinctively, I've always tried to stave off this moment, trying various permutations of a limited set of elements to yield different results. I join a long tradition of alchemists, philosophers and mathematicians, all of whom have done much the same thing in their own fields.
All the routes I've scouted and revisited, shared with friends and remixed have often unlocked new experiences, but the roads are only so many, so there's only so much change I can apply to the structure of reality.

Witold's view is much more pragmatic and more blunt than mine: "it's done, we've seen it all, let's go off-roading through the world". I prefer to think of it as a blade that gets ever sharper; much in the same way as I've constantly reduced my luggage, I must now do away with those itineraries that no longer offer anything noteworthy and focus on those that do. Surely it must be obvious that this approach invites discussions on identity (this is the Majella, this is Campotosto - both experiences remain basically unchanged regardless of how I rearrange itineraries), change, and the nature of reality: every permutation is simply a different arrangement of available elements with the purpose of maintaining the awe I talked about; either it all stays the same despite changes in how I arrange routes and gear, or something unexpected could always happen. As this isn't science, but divination, the outcome is far from guaranteed.

A somewhat more sinister interpretation has to do with determinism; consider all the permutations available to us: are we just following a predetermined order or is there room for genuine choice and variability? I wouldn't worry about this too much though...

Going much farther afield is and always has been appealing, the only limiting factors having always just been money and responsibilities. It also means, realistically, that if I do this it will be on the R100GS if there's even a hint of unpaved roads (otherwise the Sportster and the Commandos are perfectly capable machines).

Old Irons 2024 - a report.

"I heard there may not even be a rally this year..."

"I heard they were changing location and that it's going to be an invitational..."

"nobody knows for sure yet, it might be last minute..."

These were the rumors surrounding this year's Old Irons rally, and the reason is simple. As I had mentioned last year, this rally is a small miracle and relies on a delicate equilibrium in order to exist. Well, now that equilibrium has been disrupted, possibly irreversibly so: what was once a remote and hard-to-reach plateau is now inundated with all manner of vehicles and the untold masses that bring them up there. We rode past what must have been thousands of people and at least forty or fifty camper vans, huge, white and bulbous, like a grotesque display of beached beluga whales.

The motorcycles weren't much better either, all new and plasticky, all electronic, all the same...

This place is finished and I have a sense the local authorities will have to step in and regulate access, or the next thing to make the headlines around here will be "national natural landmark suffers serious environmental degradation". 

But let's go back to the start of the day, when my dad aboard the Interstate, Lele on the Sportster and I on the Rising Star set off along the Salaria, all the way to Antrodoco and then up and over towards l'Aquila. A nice easy stroll along the sweeping turns and mellow scenery of the "sabina" and "reatino" areas. It was a hot day and I was being careful not to overdo it, but the BSA was turbine smooth all day. The route was also very easy with basically only one turn where to pay attention, and a bit of a slow crossing at l'Aquila; otherwise the most challenging part was precisely up on the Campo Imperatore plateau where by some miracle the Rising Star didn't shake itself apart and I got through with only a mild buzzing sensation in my arms. This little chopper has no right to be as tough as it actually is, it keeps leaving me astonished at how strong and capable it really is.

Once we got to the mountain kiosk, it quickly became apparent it would have been impossible to stop for food there, so we continued since there really wasn't far to go. The descent towards Rigopiano was peaceful and relatively quiet; of course all along the way we met many others on choppers and other cool contraptions, which all adds to the atmosphere.

From the road, the only giveaway that there was something going on was seeing maybe a dozen bikes parked along the edge, otherwise this is very secluded indeed. A short climb on loose limestone gravel gets you to the metaphorical gate onto a clearing, immediately flanked by the mountain, itself cloaked in impossibly tall beech trees.

What I noticed right away was that everyone looked, in a word, enthusiastic about being there. This location managed to recapture the grassroots essence of this rally, as well as breathe new life into it. We all wonder what the future may bring, but it looks promising!

It seemed easier to catch up with everyone and we soon had a large group of old friends eating, drinking and spouting absolute nonsense about motorcycles and chickens.

Even Witold managed to join at the last minute but by no means late, aboard his R100GSPD, that poor bike needs a substantial amount of work and attention... and yet remains unstoppable. As to the reason why that bike needs an overhaul, that will be the subject of future discussions, but better not speak of such things at a chopper rally, so off you go into the woods:

With no time to waste, we set up our tents and figured out some helpful tips for next year (get there early to find a nice spot, bring a good flashlight and possibly leave a couple of LED beacons on so you can find your tent in the dark. Bring lots of water...).

It's so much easier being there than way up at the top where you're completely exposed to the sun beating you over the head and the wind robbing you of body heat. Instead, everything is within a few steps, be it the kiosk (hardly ever a line), the beer stand or the bikes. Lots of really nice rides this year, from Panheads to Shovels, Duo-glides and Electra-glides in their original paint, period accessories and just the right amount of patina.

One machine I kept going back to was this R90/6, with the impressive period optional twin disc brakes, a sports seat (possibly a Giuliari?) and modern shock absorbers (Wilbers, I think), the original luggage and absolutely no fuss or fanfare, just an eminently practical tourer. I find this particular model to be very appealing, though I don't know it well enough to tell whether it would suit me. At any rate the handlebar is too narrow and the master cylinder for the front brake is something that gives me pause, having seen it on our own /7.

There's something about these Bavarian airheads... they're not cool, they're not particularly good-looking, powerful or agile; and yet they can't be ignored. 

The evening's festivities continued late into the night, long after we grilled the last skewers and drank the last beer.

I couldn't fall asleep but I must have eventually passed out and woke again as the first sunrays entered my tent. We all packed up with no particular hurry and already noticed one more surprise this new place had in store for us: the morning was nice. No hurry to get going, and a breakfast stand ready to serve decent coffee and sweet or savory home-cooked items.

One thing I did do was to tighten the steering stem nut on the Rising Star, which was way too loose, probably due to all the abuse along the Majella park at the end of June. I'll need to keep an eye on this.

a lengthy detour back home was a good opportunity to revisit some nice spots like Roccaraso and the higher part of the SS17 especially. We also hit torrential rain down towards Barrea and further along, not to mention horrendous heat. Although we had no real mechanical trouble, the starter motor on Lele's Sportster is giving us cause for concern, I think this will need a rebuild and possibly an overall check of the electrical system very very soon.

Black & Gold, never gets old.

Harley-Davidson's Aqua Pearl, an underrated and now rare, super color.

Thanks to Lele for his company, patience and photos.

Majella tour 6. - Chopper edition

I had to test-ride the Rising Star with its new gearbox sprocket and improved oil circuit, just a quick blast along country B-lanes to figure out if it all works and nothing falls off. So I fire it up (easy, with a new battery...) and set off; immediately I notice that it seems to have more torque, though of course this is just the effect of the different ratio, allowing me to make better use of what was there all along. It invites harder acceleration but is still perfectly suited to cruising along, nice and easy.

The warm evening sun burns bright and yellow, and throws my shadow on a tall concrete wall that runs all along the road. I see myself as a two-dimensional rider, very laid back, black on beige. I smile a little as I wind on the throttle and the feisty parallel twin roars louder, no doubt because the sound bounces off that containment wall; the bike leans to the right and picks up speed. Back at the shed I check the undercarriage for any signs of damage to the oil lines, but it's all right where it's supposed to be and I don't see any of it getting into trouble unless I start off-roading through the bushes, which I don't plan on doing, at least not intentionally.

An idea had been taking a firmer hold in my mind ever since we breathed new life into the Rising Star, and that was attempting a Majella Tour on the chopper. Could it be done? Would the bike hold up to the rigors of that circuit? Would I, on that tiny rigid frame?

Just picturing the Rising Star in the most glorious of settings, along the grasslands of the south-west, or the northern forest is enough to bring it all into a determined focus: I'm gonna do this.

So far there have been two ways of touring the Majella park, either getting there, doing the loop, staying the night and then returning to Rome the following day (which is very demanding and requires an easy bike such as a 247 BMW or an Evolution Sportster), or taking a whole day to reach the park, spending the night, touring on the second day, spending the night again in the same place, and finally returning home on day 3. For this tour, I wanted the experience to be as unique as possible and started trying to decode the route that would allow me to finally recapture that view, that most breathtaking view that still haunts my psyche to this very day. I had attempted this last year but it didn't quite work, so instead I figured I needed to reach the peak as close to sunset as possible, and ride down towards Roccamorice as though plunging into an orange glow, the very air tinted with impossible colors and a warmth that defies the cold mountain air. It would also mean spending the night at a new campsite, which had its pros and cons.

But let me start from the beginning: 

Day 1 sees me braving the wastelands of ciociaria, nice enough places at times but full of angry, barely-human goons, hicks and yokels. Seeking cooler air, I find the old Prenestina and follow it all the way to Fiuggi, where I avoid being pulled over by some angry cops by sheer luck. I continue along the way taking a quick look at the small lake at Canterno, then up again towards Collepardo and it's only then that I stop somewhere in the woods near the magnificent Trisulti monastery.

Since I have plenty of time to reach the campsite, I take my time to appreciate the fresh air and birdsong among the trees. I also remove the luggage and this marks the beginning of a three-day struggle to figure out the best way to strap it down securely. This is something I still haven't fully mastered, though I look forward to the eureka moment that will inevitably come one day. I gotta rethink the way I mount my luggage to the sissy bar, and possibly whittle it down even more than I already have. It's already pretty minimal but if I can't carry that stuff easily, then I'll have to leave some of it at home. 

This is also a good time to drink plenty of water: I had put a bottle in the freezer the night before and enjoyed perfectly cold water all day long.

The SP224 is a gradual descent towards Sora, but before I even get there I see it shrouded in suffocating heat and humidity: it's visible from miles away and by the time I stop for fuel my head is spinning and I find myself drenched in sweat. I gulp down some electrolyte and make a small effort to get going again, knowing that I'll soon be out of that cauldron. The bike is coping (only thanks to the new cooler and filter), the luggage is problematic, I'm sweating buckets but replenishing with ice water at every stop.

I'm now climbing towards Forca d'Acero and this is where I must face that climbs are slow and tough: this is not a beast of an engine, there's only so much it can do and you just have to slow down and take whatever time it takes to get there.

Once nearing Opi things change and the trip becomes much more enjoyable, but people just ruin it in general. So often I hear people who travel say "oh the best thing about traveling is meeting people"; never have I ever felt that way. 

The campsite is nice but understandably crowded, so it's good to be self-sufficient with food and coffee. The night is lovely and cool, I'm comfortable and get a very good night's sleep.

I decide to add a considerable detour at the start of day two, the extra miles are to see one beautiful stretch of road as well as to delay my arrival at the top of the Majella, chasing that sunset.

As I pack up, my main concern is getting the damn luggage to stay put. I'm using actual ratchet straps for maximum reliability and they're not the ones causing problems. Still, I'll have to stop and readjust a couple of times during the day, not a big deal though it is something I would rather solve once and for all on my next chopper outing.

So many times during this trip the Rising Star just seemed to find the nicest spots under the shade of a tree on a panoramic spot, or a little dirt lane into the woods, just always enough to get out of sight and let me stretch my legs, relax and really be one with the experience. Far out...

The climb after Pacentro is particularly slow going, but again the bike is coping and I'm soon on the loop, somewhat in disbelief that I finally got here on the Rising Star. Now the real trip begins and immediately I feel it, that unmistakable aura of uniqueness that only this place exudes. I feel the familiar challenge of wanting to bask in the beauty of the landscape but needing to concentrate on the road... especially on a hardtail. Speaking of familiarity, what a strange feeling it is to know these places quite well, and yet still be in awe of them. Normally after a while a place loses its shine... not this place. Not this grandiose park. Not this ancient mountain with its divinity still overseeing the land that surrounds it and the road that loops around it.

I'm now cruising downhill towards the southern tip, it's easy and the engine is definitely enjoying the fresh air. This is the base of the Majella, right here:

The next twenty kilometers are exhilarating and I can't help but ride a little faster and harder on this magnificent stretch of road, which I have all to myself (though this is not unusual, there's hardly ever anyone around here). The BSA responds well and gets all the power it can to the rear wheel, the frame has no trouble keeping me out of trouble and the ride is fantastic, as is the accompanying soundtrack.

The Rising Star guides me to another spot at lake S. Angelo, that I'm sure I've ridden past at least half a dozen times before, yet never found.

So I stop and look around, then find a narrow passage down to the shore, so I go take a dip: that color is too inviting and the heat means I don't even think twice.

It's getting late in the afternoon and the toughest part of the course is still ahead of me, a long tortuous ascent towards the northern point, where I stop and take a photo:

I'm still a long way away from the top and the climb is slow. I notice it by comparing this to the Fastback or the Sportster but rather than feel like something is lacking, I respect the machine and marvel at what was once a pile of parts and is now a beautiful, classy chopper with lots of tasteful details and an overall righteousness that I couldn't find on a stock motorcycle: custom is better.

One final struggle to reach the top and I'm at the Bruno Pomilio chalet at over 6.200ft up. There's a big party going on and I'm by far riding the oldest and strangest machine up here (save perhaps for the red snow cat, but that one lives up here and is in its element to be fair):

All that noise and all those people are the exact opposite of what I'm looking for, so I stay for just one beer and then make my way down to that magical spot and decide to wait out that most elusive sunset.

It takes a while and it's getting cold, but I've waited too long for this and I'm not giving up. As I'm walking around enjoying the views (this is by no means just killing time, it's wonderful to be up here), I move slightly back and my eyes catch the reflection of the sun running up the sissy bar, until it gleams as a brilliant miniature starburst right at the top. Then, suddenly, there it is:

It's time to start riding down, both the sun and I getting lower, the light diffused and warm, an otherworldly atmosphere that leaves me speechless once again after all these years.

The new campsite is not easy to find and I get there in the dark; luckily the headlight works just fine and throws a proper beam so I can still read the road and avoid cracks and potholes. It's a fancy glamping place and I'm greeted with a slightly snobbish, bemused look. Still, the food is nice, the beer is cold and my camping spot is perfectly fine.

I set up the tent with the sickly sweet scent of incense burning somewhere nearby, it's quiet and night takes over the woods bringing with it a well deserved rest. I still don't fully comprehend what I've just done and seen, but this is a good sign as it means I was truly present in that moment.

It was a long day on that tiny saddle, and the loop still isn't closed; that's a final treat for the next day.

I wake up early the following day and get some coffee going, I have time to enjoy these last moments of peace and quiet before packing up.

I decided to take the autostrada all the way back to save some time, but this was not an easy thing to do. I don't know what the bike's top speed is, probably no more than 55/60mph and I assure you it is not a pleasant experience: between the noise and the marked discomfort, riding a chopper at "speed" and over a longish distance is no fun. It's also the first time during this trip that I'm making full use of top gear, and it's here that I start noticing something alarming in the form of a clanging metal-on-metal sound that really shouldn't be there. I must have a chain clearance issue after fitting the larger sprocket, though not anywhere near the crankcase, but rather at the rear fender and on the underside of the oil tank. This had never happened before and I'm still trying to figure out why it's now doing this and how to correct it. I quickly figure out how to ride around it and the remainder of the trip is trouble-free, even despite some rain.

Exposed on all sides up on the Pietrasecca bridge, a sudden gust of wind pushes me across the lane, which paints a smug look on my face as I think to myself "such a light motorcycle". Look at this thing though, it's gnarly:

70 meters high and nearly two kilometers long, it's always a hair-raising experience and one I'm not that keen to repeat anytime soon.

I then wonder how it's even possible that I'm rolling forward and sideways at the same time, and I feel the "road hug" compound of the K70 Gold Seal tires work hard to keep me tracking true. Absolutely fantastic tires that I would even consider for our Interstate Commando.

The tiny bright red taillight pierces the darkness of a tunnel up ahead and for just an instant the eye is fooled into seeing a blood-red streak hanging in midair. At least that's what I imagine those behind me must see.

I'm back home after around 650Km over three days and on a very tough course without breaking down or anything falling off the bike: the Rising Star should have earned anyone's respect after this trip. 

The Majella is two things at once: a metaphysical experience that goes beyond the senses, and a technical proving ground that awards only the best machines the confidence to know they can go anywhere.

Time to start planning the next one...

Let us pray.

 

"Will you marry me?"