Maine news, sports, weather from Waterville Morning Sentinel

GOING for the GARB

BY BETTY ADAMS Staff Writer

AUGUSTA -- Packing for two for a six-day motorcycle adventure to Atlantic Canada should have been easier last month.

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Shirts, shoes -- no high heels except for ankle-high black boots -- jeans, leather jackets, gloves and a pair of shorts and sneakers or flip-flops for the après ride.

It might not sound like much, but that gear was a lot more than we brought for a 12,000-mile ride in 1978.

On that trek, we spent seven weeks atop a 1973 R75/5 BMW on a ride that skirted the perimeter of the country, rose into Canada and dipped into Mexico.

We were a lot younger, less conscious of fashion and had only a tank bag for clothes, tools and, occasionally, a spare oil can. The double sleeping bag was wrapped at the rear rack, and, after the lean-to proved none too practical in the first week of camping, a pup tent was strapped to the fork over the front fender.

One photo from the end of that epic journey shows the clothes spread out on the patio at the rear of my mother's house in Exton, Pa.: my red, white and blue helmet, and Glenn's gold one. A black leather jacket for him (which he still wears) and a red cloth jacket for me contributed by my mother-in-law. A cotton dress with a figure-flattening ruched top. An extra pair of jeans, and some flip-flops. Heavy orange and green rain slickers. A couple of T-shirts, some underwear and the bike tools.

Even before we set out, our parents were dubious about the adventure but agreed to accept collect calls once a week.

Crossing the Rockies with snowflakes coating the road despite the calendar calling it August, we wore almost every article of clothing we had. Glenn wore a bandana bandit-style to protect his face.

Mid-trip in San Diego, my apparel so appalled my Samoan-born aunt that I was immediately taken in her car to the nearest supermarket/clothing store to fill in the gaps. She threw away the threadbare items.

In Las Vegas and, later, Phoenix, boots were unbearable but flip-flops no better. The sun scorched the tops of our feet, and heat reflected from the black macadam melted the rubber soles.

For last month's 1,555-mile trek, all the clothes and other essentials had to fit in two ride-along bags hooked deftly onto a frame covering the rear wheel. No skirts, no large pocketbook -- just something big enough for a passport and glasses. We would stay in bed-and-breakfasts or motels, so camping gear was unnecessary.

The operator had at least half a bag for his clothes. Glenn and I had matching silver helmets, riding gloves, and new rain gear that we were forced to don at the 100-mile mark. The rainsuits wicked away water and dried almost immediately when hung in a hotel room or at a bed and breakfast. The bag at the rear of the 1999 BMW R1100 RT seat was reserved for essentials: rain gear, maps, purse and bike cover. It's like going on vacation with less than one carry-on for two people.

I have learned that, yes, even in your 50s, you can wear jeans five days in a row, that the motorcycle seat gets no softer as you age, and that riding behind is the only way to go.

Next time, I just might ask for one of those trailers. I'm sure I could pack a larger wardrobe.

Betty Adams -- 621-5631

badams@centralmaine.com