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| The Suzuki GS750T and Honda CB750F |
I find myself laughing from the sheer joy of it all. The shield of my full-face helmet is partway open, and I can taste the wind. On my left New York’s Catskill Mountains tower, going from green to blue in the background, and the Hudson River is just over the hill to my right. Route 9W unrolls ahead of me, a grey line winding through the Hudson Valley hills. Underneath me the ’82 GS750’s four cylinders are running in full cry. John Denver’s Country Roads runs through my head: “Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River….Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong…”, and it dawns on me that this is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, this is what I’ve been working towards during all those long hours wrenching on the bike-busted knuckles, rusty, greasy hands, the improvised roadside repairs and nursing her home once or twice, that turned the machine I bought as an almost running bike (the previous owner used copious amounts of starter fluid to get it going so I could ride cautiously home) into a well running, happy motorcycle that starts with a prime and a touch of the button, and that I am now riding halfway across New York State with nothing more than the clothes, helmet, leather jacket, and boots I’m wearing. I learned to ride last fall and rode everywhere in the spring and summer while also learning to fix the little problems that kept cropping up, and this is my first trip outside of an hour or so from home. She may not be pretty-paint’s a project for next year, for now she’s still wearing the rough black she came with, since I want to ride-but she’s mine, and she’s running beautifully. Here on the bike, with a road I’ve never ridden rolling out ahead, miles behind me and miles still to go, I feel perfectly at home, and totally self-reliant. It’s a new feeling, but one I already know I’ll remember and go looking for again.
Route 9W gets interesting as it gets near Albany, winding through old industrial towns parallel with a railroad line. There’s a tight curve under a bridge that takes me by surprise so I drag the edge of my boot on the pavement around the corner, but otherwise it’s easy, quick riding and I make it to the barbecue joint we were meeting at right on time. After a solid dinner at Albany’s Capital Q Smokehouse (on Ontario Street), we saddle up-my ’82 Suzuki GS750T and my riding buddy’s ’80 Honda CB750F. Our bikes are variations on the “Universal Japanese Motorcycle” inline four-cylinder theme of the 1970s and 80s, so we’re looking forward to riding them together and comparing machines. We’ve been talking about motorcycle trips since college, took the MSF course together, and now here we are, finally riding. We leave Albany and head north as evening falls. Even though it’s late August, the temperature falls to the point where I have to zip up the open collar of my jacket to keep the night wind out. The roads north are deserted, so we get a little heavy on our right wrists, and top out the speedometers for a while. Granted, they only go up to 80mph indicated and our old bikes aren’t the fastest machines on the road, but the old saying that it’s more fun to go fast on a slow bike than slow on a fast bike applies here in spades. We’re pushing the bikes hard, and having the time of our lives as we roar through the darkness side by side, following our twin headlights.
We’re on the road early the next morning, headed for the Ilion Gorge. This is a lovely twisty stretch of NYS Route 51 outside of Ilion, NY, that runs through the woods beside a creek. We take it easy the first time through the gorge, since I’ve never ridden it before and there are a few decreasing radius turns, and some areas where the road surface is a bit rough. We stop in Ilion to talk it over, and decide to turn around and run back through the gorge a bit faster. This time I ride ahead, and now that I know the road I take it at a good pace, dragging my foot pegs through a few corners while trying not to get distracted by the late summer scenery of upstate New York, and the creek chattering along by the road. There’s a gravel-filled ditch across the road at one point, so I come off the throttle, pull in the clutch, let the bike roll over it, and then we’re at it again, eating up the road through the gorge. It’s reasonably quick riding, but this is no place to push ourselves. Riders on race replica sportbikes get themselves into trouble on this road, but that’s part of the charm of the old bikes we ride-we don’t have to run them hard for it to be fun. We’re here to enjoy the sheer experience of riding our machines, whatever the pace.
For the ride back south to New Paltz we decide to follow NYS Route 32 down through the Catskill Mountains. This is a road neither of us know, which should make for a much more interesting trip than a familiar route. We see the mountains in the distance for a long time before the road starts climbing, and the houses start to thin out. There are a few little towns, and mountain farms here and there, but the forest and mountains start to close in. I get a chance to ride the CB750F for a while outside of Oneonta, and really enjoy it. The bars are higher and wider than the superbike bars on my GS750T, and have aftermarket cushioned grips, so the ride is very comfortable and provides a welcome stretch for my shoulders. The Honda is a bit heavier and taller than the Suzuki, but tracks beautifully, and the Kerker exhaust sounds mean compared to the stock pipes on the GS, giving the feeling of a lot of power. The seat is comfortable, and riding position is so upright that I feel like I could keep going straight on to California with this bike, but for cornering performance and low speed maneuvering I might prefer my slightly lower, lighter machine, with narrower bars. After a while (and an accidental detour when we get separated and go looking for each other in opposite directions) we switch back to our own bikes, and swinging a leg over the familiar Suzuki feels like coming home. The road gets steeper and we start climbing in earnest, until finally we crest the last hill, and get the same idea simultaneously. We brake, pull our bikes over to the shoulder, and dismount to take in the view. Spread out in front us we see the Catskills, blue in the afternoon haze, with Route 32 twisting down the hill in front of us into the mountains. We take a few pictures, and head down to the mountains. Soon we find the border of the park, appropriately marked by the Kaaterskill creek. We pull over again by the “Entering Catskill Park” sign, take a few more pictures, and walk onto the bridge to look at the creek and talk about fishing. Somehow pulling over like this seems easier on a motorcycle than in a cage. You’re already out in the wind, with the road flying by inches from your boots. You feel the air temperature change as you pass a stream or a valley, taste the different air in the woods and mountains with a hint of carbureted four-stroke exhaust, and your attention is focused, awareness heightened, in a way unlike anything you get in a car. You feel connected to the country you’re riding through, to the road, and to the machine, especially with a bike you’ve fixed yourself. That’s what riding these old motorcycles is all about. This trip was nothing special-a few hundred miles there and back in two days of riding-but we were alive and free in a way neither of us had been before. We’ll be going back.
Route 9W gets interesting as it gets near Albany, winding through old industrial towns parallel with a railroad line. There’s a tight curve under a bridge that takes me by surprise so I drag the edge of my boot on the pavement around the corner, but otherwise it’s easy, quick riding and I make it to the barbecue joint we were meeting at right on time. After a solid dinner at Albany’s Capital Q Smokehouse (on Ontario Street), we saddle up-my ’82 Suzuki GS750T and my riding buddy’s ’80 Honda CB750F. Our bikes are variations on the “Universal Japanese Motorcycle” inline four-cylinder theme of the 1970s and 80s, so we’re looking forward to riding them together and comparing machines. We’ve been talking about motorcycle trips since college, took the MSF course together, and now here we are, finally riding. We leave Albany and head north as evening falls. Even though it’s late August, the temperature falls to the point where I have to zip up the open collar of my jacket to keep the night wind out. The roads north are deserted, so we get a little heavy on our right wrists, and top out the speedometers for a while. Granted, they only go up to 80mph indicated and our old bikes aren’t the fastest machines on the road, but the old saying that it’s more fun to go fast on a slow bike than slow on a fast bike applies here in spades. We’re pushing the bikes hard, and having the time of our lives as we roar through the darkness side by side, following our twin headlights.
We’re on the road early the next morning, headed for the Ilion Gorge. This is a lovely twisty stretch of NYS Route 51 outside of Ilion, NY, that runs through the woods beside a creek. We take it easy the first time through the gorge, since I’ve never ridden it before and there are a few decreasing radius turns, and some areas where the road surface is a bit rough. We stop in Ilion to talk it over, and decide to turn around and run back through the gorge a bit faster. This time I ride ahead, and now that I know the road I take it at a good pace, dragging my foot pegs through a few corners while trying not to get distracted by the late summer scenery of upstate New York, and the creek chattering along by the road. There’s a gravel-filled ditch across the road at one point, so I come off the throttle, pull in the clutch, let the bike roll over it, and then we’re at it again, eating up the road through the gorge. It’s reasonably quick riding, but this is no place to push ourselves. Riders on race replica sportbikes get themselves into trouble on this road, but that’s part of the charm of the old bikes we ride-we don’t have to run them hard for it to be fun. We’re here to enjoy the sheer experience of riding our machines, whatever the pace.
For the ride back south to New Paltz we decide to follow NYS Route 32 down through the Catskill Mountains. This is a road neither of us know, which should make for a much more interesting trip than a familiar route. We see the mountains in the distance for a long time before the road starts climbing, and the houses start to thin out. There are a few little towns, and mountain farms here and there, but the forest and mountains start to close in. I get a chance to ride the CB750F for a while outside of Oneonta, and really enjoy it. The bars are higher and wider than the superbike bars on my GS750T, and have aftermarket cushioned grips, so the ride is very comfortable and provides a welcome stretch for my shoulders. The Honda is a bit heavier and taller than the Suzuki, but tracks beautifully, and the Kerker exhaust sounds mean compared to the stock pipes on the GS, giving the feeling of a lot of power. The seat is comfortable, and riding position is so upright that I feel like I could keep going straight on to California with this bike, but for cornering performance and low speed maneuvering I might prefer my slightly lower, lighter machine, with narrower bars. After a while (and an accidental detour when we get separated and go looking for each other in opposite directions) we switch back to our own bikes, and swinging a leg over the familiar Suzuki feels like coming home. The road gets steeper and we start climbing in earnest, until finally we crest the last hill, and get the same idea simultaneously. We brake, pull our bikes over to the shoulder, and dismount to take in the view. Spread out in front us we see the Catskills, blue in the afternoon haze, with Route 32 twisting down the hill in front of us into the mountains. We take a few pictures, and head down to the mountains. Soon we find the border of the park, appropriately marked by the Kaaterskill creek. We pull over again by the “Entering Catskill Park” sign, take a few more pictures, and walk onto the bridge to look at the creek and talk about fishing. Somehow pulling over like this seems easier on a motorcycle than in a cage. You’re already out in the wind, with the road flying by inches from your boots. You feel the air temperature change as you pass a stream or a valley, taste the different air in the woods and mountains with a hint of carbureted four-stroke exhaust, and your attention is focused, awareness heightened, in a way unlike anything you get in a car. You feel connected to the country you’re riding through, to the road, and to the machine, especially with a bike you’ve fixed yourself. That’s what riding these old motorcycles is all about. This trip was nothing special-a few hundred miles there and back in two days of riding-but we were alive and free in a way neither of us had been before. We’ll be going back.
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| Rt. 32, entering the Catskills |
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| Kaaterskill Creek, origin of the name Catskills |
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| At the edge of Catskill Park |
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