Sometimes You Sleep in the Dirt. And Sometimes You Leave the Dirt at the Door.
By Geoff Drake
Originally published in BMW Owners News.
Last weekend I had a notion to go on a camping weekend with my local MC, the BMW Motorcycle Club of Northern California, who’s motto is, “Ride to Camp, Camp to Ride.” I was already envisioning a long day of hard riding, culminating in a campfire meal, fermented beverages, and a night in my tent, on hard ground. You know, proper guy (and girl) stuff.
That’s when Meredith saw me packing my gear and suggested that instead, we ride two-up to Mendocino, California, a mere 150 miles on some of the state’s most beautiful, untrafficked roads, and stay in a luxury B&B, from which we could see the ocean from our window. Instead of a meal of canned stew prepared on camp stove, we’d walk a block to a renowned restaurant for grilled salmon, local wine, capped off with an affogato. While the guys at the campout would be burning their fingers lighting stogies from a bonfire, we’d be availing ourselves of the small, flower-shaped chocolates on the bed table.
You can only guess what I did next. The meal was delicious. I heard later it rained at the campout. I was not filled with regret.
Don’t get me wrong. I love motorcycle camping. And I’ve done plenty of it, alone, and with groups. I understand the attraction of a night under the stars and the beautiful simplicity of carrying everything you need in two panniers and a tank bag.
I’m also not averse to in-room espresso, afternoon pastries in the lobby, and, if needed, heat or air conditioning, in the company of my lovely wife.
I figure that indulging in both styles of riding is key to my decades-long romance with motorcycle travel. Sometimes I’ll opt for long, hard trips, culminating in a bunch of codgers grilling huge slabs of meat and bloviating about past glories around the campfire. And sometimes, I’ll take the corner table at a French restaurant and order the prix fixe coq au vin. The joy is in the juxtaposition of the two.
Roughing It
In my teenage years, I did a couple of one-month wilderness survival camps (Alaska and New York’s Adirondack mountains), where I learned a few skills that have served me well my entire life. Consequently, I like to sleep in the dirt. It’s a thing. I often eschew hotels, campgrounds, and other places where one usually finds, well, people. Of course I love all of you, but in general I find humans are vastly overrated as a species. (I do like dogs, though.)
My father-in-law was a primitive camper. His favorite undertaking was to take his ancient and malfunctioning Toyota pickup and hit the dirt roads of northern California. Alone. He liked to sleep in the dirt, too, with only the most rudimentary equipment. And a bottle of red wine. He would invariably come home with a vastly improved opinion of the world, and a vastly worse aroma. His wife, my mother-in-law, would meet him at the door with an arm and finger outstretched, pointing toward the shower. “Off you go! NOW!”
I’ve spent plenty of nights primitive camping, after going a mile or two down a dirt road and throwing my sleeping bag and pad on the ground. Some of the best company I’ve ever had on a motorcycle trip has been, well, me. We don’t argue, talk politics, or fight over tent sites.
I’ve also had wonderful experiences in campgrounds. But there have been nights where I make a great camp, settle in, and then have a dozen yahoos descend with a small liquor store worth of booze, bonfires, and music systems playing head-banging stuff from bands with names like Steaming Trash or The Flaming Kittens. Night ruined.
Zero Miles Before Breakfast
Compare all this to last weekend. With Meredith on the back, it didn’t take much for me to abandon my erstwhile rugged-guy outlook for a couple of nights on perfect roads and two days in a luxurious B&B with three pillows apiece, a French press with two kinds of coffee, and other, delicate objects on the side table that smell good but I can’t identify. The bathroom had three different shower heads that I couldn’t figure out, and a small, in-room spa that I also failed to operate.
Mileage on such trips tends to be severely moderated. 250-mile days are out of the question. With Meredith aboard, we go for 100-150 miles of perfect, twisty backroads with exceptional views, no traffic, all punctuated by coffee shops or bakeries every 50 miles. Roadside naps are not out of the question. But rain is. Time to pull over.
In another life, I’d do that many miles before breakfast. Do I miss it? Of course not.
The tough guy part of me says, “Get thee to the forest and sleep on the ground!” The older, wiser version of me says: “Uh, why?” I like bedding, an excess of pillows, and a terry-cloth bathrobe. I also like taking two showers a day, because, well, it’s somebody else’s water. And I can. So there’s that.
The Right Tool for the Job
I’ve ridden bare-bones dual sport bikes in the dirt, with a foldable chair being the one concession to luxury. I’ve also ridden enormous Gold Wings with cupholders and what appears to be a La-Z-Boy on the back. Whenever we came into small towns, I half expected people to genuflect to Meredith sitting on her perch like Queen Nefertiti.
Many of my clubmates camp with the equivalent of an entire REI store atop their GSAs, including a cot, two-burner stove, gallons of fresh water, a generator, and a half cord of wood for the campfire. I don’t think there is any suspension preload setting that’s made to accommodate this load, and to me, the whole thing looks like a rider atop an elephant. But these guys also cover serious distances on such setups, so who am I to question the approach?
Overall, a modern BMW GS has immeasurably helped my camping ethos. I can’t think of a better ride for the purpose. I load up the hard bags and top case, quickly change the suspension preload to match, ROK-Strap my bedroll to the passenger seat, and go. Somehow, even encumbered like this, the bike remains entirely composed on moderate dirt roads, and does a passing imitation of a sportbike on mountain passes. I’ve also camped on a Honda VFR800, a Suzuki “Wee-Strom,” and an ancient and anemic Kawasaki KLR 650, among others. But the GS is the best. By far. No wonder our club campouts feature rows of similar bikes. They just work.
In my dotage, I want to think that I still retain the ability to make a fire, eat rudimentary camp meals, sleep in down bag, and tell ribald stories deep into the night. But, as my wife knows, at the same time, I’m entirely susceptible to gourmet foods presented on a tray, well after sunrise.
In either case, motorcycle trips are one of life’s great pleasures, whether your head rests upon three fashionable pillows—or a sturdy rock.