Written In Chrome

Created by motorcycle enthusiasts for motorcycle enthusiasts.

Get your free account at Written In Chrome.

  • Vote

    for your favorite new posts
  • Publish

    your own original blog posts
  • Earn

    $20 for your posts voted to Top Posts
  • Sign Up!
The Best Ride
Facebook Tweet Google+ Pinterest Email More Sharing Options

The Best Ride

The October sun burned bright in perfect blue skies. I could not wait to ride my Yamaha up through the bluffs and valleys along the Mississippi River.

I live west of Dubuque, a river town of its own distinction, in the country. I love nothing better than loading up my bike and taking off for new vistas and have logged thousands of miles doing so. But nothing fills my spirit like the Great River Road in Northeast Iowa.

My trusty bike almost seems to know the way; I’ve ridden this way often, but the view behind the handlebars is ever-changing. Brown corn stalks wave gently as I ride toward Bankston, whose church steeple rises proudly across the hills (My favorite view of it happens to be from Park Farm Winery’s deck). A few fields have been picked or partially so, and I watch out for corn pickers and tractors on the road. Farmers wave at me when I roar by.

At Holy Cross, I turn onto Highway 52. This road, usually pot-holed and rough, has seen some improvement over the summer. It curves and dips just the way a biker likes it. I pay attention, even though I know this road, but still manage to catch the rolling hill views from the high ridges. Riding on a Tuesday means the traffic is light, but I approach blind curves with caution.

The 15 miles from Luxemburg to Guttenberg fly by, sturdy farmhouses with bountiful pumpkins for sale, ancient cemeteries, and tiny churches along the way. Seemingly without warning, the view in front of me changes. I love this part of my ride, looking down over the winding river and lush bluffs. I stop at the lookout (“Honey for Sale”) and park the bike. An older couple pull in after me and the three of us silently gaze out across the valley for several minutes. “It’s peaceful, isn’t it?” the woman asks. I nod and head toward my bike but she stops me with a pat on my arm. “Take care, dear, and be safe.” I feel like hugging her, but smile instead.

I seldom pass through Guttenberg without stopping by the river park or having a cool drink in the Dam Bar (yes, that’s its real name), but today I want to get farther upstream. My later start means the fall sun will be lower sooner. The River Road beckons.

The trees on the way toward McGregor-Marquette are starting to show spots of yellows, reds, and oranges. By next week, they should be glorious, and I cross my fingers mentally for the weather to hold. Riding down the steep, seemingly 90-degree gateway into McGregor always takes me back in time. The store fronts look much as they did years ago, when this town had a thriving oyster shell industry. The train runs next to the river, and any local can talk about fishing or the mood of the river. I would love to stop, but have my sights set for Lansing today. I do pull on gloves: The next part of the road winds between the bluffs and the river; even on a sunny summer day, it remains cool and shady.

I own the road for quite a few miles, until I meet a long convoy of vehicles led by a pilot truck. I idle patiently and nod at the road construction guys, who smile and wave at me when I take off again.

Little river towns like Lansing seem to be hidden, accessible only by twisty old roads and protected by rocky hills and swiftly flowing waters. I can easily imagine horses and buggies raising dust on the narrow streets. If I had more time, I would cross the high grated bridge into Wisconsin today. I would also take the incredible ride up Mount Hosmer and catch that spectacular view again. Yes, Iowa does have a mountain, for those who don’t believe it. I grab a bite and reluctantly turn south, resolving to stop at Pikes Peak on the way home.

A few people roam Pikes Peak park today; we almost reverently look down onto glistening waters, green-forested aits, and plateaued bluffs. Old Zebulon Pike might have been behind my shoulder in this moment of time, for the way it feels. I imagine he would enjoy the idea of this 60-year-old grandma riding her motorcycle through this wild part of Iowa.

I ride home in a somewhat altered state, humbled, exhilarated, and totally refreshed.

 

Photo courtesy Flickr Creative Commons

Yes! Send me a full color motorcycle trailer brochure from Wells Cargo.

Thanks!

Leave a Comment

  1. Written In Chrome Crew
    Written In Chrome Crew
    We're loving it, Granny! Thanks for posting on Written in Chrome.
    Log in to reply.

Sign Up to Vote!

10 second sign-up with Facebook or Google

Already a member? Log in to vote.