Two for the Road
You know that travel cliché that says "it's about the journey, not the destination"? Whoever said it must have ridden a motorcycle. When I take my truck, hours of driving separate me from the backpacking, mountain biking, or boating. But on a motorcycle, the adventure starts the second my feet leave the ground. Plus it's cheap: All it takes is a $100 bill in my pocket and a 500-mile loop of pavement. And when the riding's done, I feel completely justified splurging on a great meal and an extravagant hotel, preferably within spittin' distance of a river. Done right, the motorcycle weekend ends up like the time I checked in to the high-end Sorrel River Ranch, outside Moab, after a day of riding through heat, wind, rain, and two states' worth of spectacular landscapes. All I had the energy to do was sit on the porch overlooking the Colorado River, drink beer, and watch the sun set on the red rocks across the water. And then, in the morning, throttle home.
Junkin' Your Trunk
I've heard a lot of people push trail mix as the ideal driving food. The rationale: Gorp contains no oils that are hard to pronounce and is less apt than chips ending in the suffix "-itos" to turn your car into a rolling Superfund site. But a person should preach what he practices. And when driving to bike, fish, or hike, do I fill Harriet, my '94 Accord, with peanuts? No. I go with Fritos, Snickers, and beef jerky. I do this because I'm driving, not climbing Denali. Because life is short. Because the trans fats will be worked off once I park. And because, when Harriet starts smelling odd, I can stick an orange peel in the fan vents and turn up the air conditioning, which, on occasion, still works.
Stripping off a wetsuit on the side of California's Pacific Coast Highway with bottle caps threatening my bare feetthat's when I most appreciate my Rubbermaid Roughneck Storage Box. I can stand in it and pull off my suit with dirt-free feet. Once that wetsuit is in the tub, I just put the lid on and stick it in my car without sand filling the lining of my trunk. It's safe to say I have an irrational attachment to these plastic safe-deposit boxes. Go into my gear room and you'll find tub after tub: one for headlamps and stoves, one for goggles and gloves, one for bike pedals and helmets, and one that's always empty. Because you never know when you might need to leave town for the weekend.