The Two Faced Dalton Highway

Considered one of the most isolated roads in the USA due to its extremely limited services and the lack of real towns, the Dalton Highway is one of the holy grail roads for adventure riders in North America. I have to admit that it was not at all what I expected – the sordid tales of extreme road covered in fist size rocks, foot deep mud, extreme drops, and horrid corrugation were all true… but only in very small sections of the road. I expected 414 miles of some of the worst road on earth and instead encountered maybe a grand total of 20 miles of not-great road in total – and at least a hundred miles in total of some of the most pristine tarmac I’ve ever seen.

As such, I went into the Dalton expecting an extreme riding experience and a severe challenge of my skills and discipline – and on the way up, I got it, but only due to the weather. It was absolutely horrible, with temperatures hovering just barely above freezing, rain and mist a constant companion, and fog massively reducing visibility. When riding on a gravel or muddy road on a bike, visibility is critical – picking the smoothest line through the debris or the hardest looking earth is what allows you to avoid destruction. I rode onward, resting my mind on the paved sections, destroying myself on the rest.

It’s the mud that’s the worst, you see.  When you have a rear wheel pushing a front wheel, traction loss in mud or gravel allows you to experience uncomfortable Newtonian reality as the rear wheel slides out of line constantly trying to become the front wheel.  This effect is aggravated by the very small scooter wheels, which result in massive bump steer and a much smaller gyro effect to keep the scooter stable. A light touch and constant vigilance is required to keep Red on track, in spite of all my skill and experience there were many times when I rode slightly sideways, cocked at a twenty degree angle just slowly modulating the throttle to allow the rear to slide back into line, without losing momentum and forward motion in the mud and getting stuck.  Exhilarating misery.

As I crossed into the Arctic Tundra, I found a new problem – where would I stop? What looks like fields of flowers and grass is actually a bog, with water soaked soil only a few inches deep resting directly on the permafrost. The only option would be to stop at one of the gravel pullouts used to check the pipeline, but in the tundra these were all occupied by the many hunters who flock to this area to hunt caribou (with bows!).  After many more hours in the mist, mud, and misery I finally found a pullout that wasn’t very ideal for a permanent camp due to its extreme angle and set up my tent for a few hours of warmth and rest.

The next morning was slightly better, and within a few miles I encountered one of the final sections of tarmac – a relaxed, breezy ride for awhile before the final push on to Deadhorse. The end of the Dalton Highway was mostly packed dirt and the rain had stopped, providing me fair conditions to arrive in this little camp on the top of the world. Perhaps the strangest bit was being able to see the buildings of the town in the distance from nearly thirty miles away! I thought the distance was wrong but as I rode on and on and on I realized it was just the chilling effect of the empty flat tundra plain the camp is built on.

When I arrived in Deadhorse, I picked one of the two hotels at random and purchased the most expensive room of my journey – for $190 I would have a warm shower and a few hours of precious warmth to prepare myself for the grueling ride back down. I was able to sneak onto the Arctic Ocean tour without the normal 24 hour security check, though I admit I was a bit bummed that everyone I asked made it clear there was a zero chance of getting Red inside the private compound.  I was still unwinding from the trip up when I got to the Arctic Ocean and only had a quick dip – it was simply too cold, muddy, and shallow to do anything else. Alas.


The next morning, I woke up to find something quite unexpected – a great ball of fire and a huge blue expanse spread out above me. My spirits soaring, I jumped on Red and tore down the Dalton Highway.  In the warm sun, the road had baked nicely and with the temperatures in the upper 40’s all was well with me.  By the time I got down to the Brooks Range where the sun was blotted out again by clouds I had crossed the Arctic Tundra in nearly a third of the time it took me on the way up.

Even with spots of mud and rain in the Brooks Range, I continued to make exceptional time, tearing down the road at nearly full throttle, often sliding around over gravel, mud, rocks, or bumps at well over 40MPH. I had to keep reminding myself to be careful, the mental and physical high was raging and risks were taken perhaps a bit too much.

The highlight of my entire journey came just north of Coldfoot on an especially bad and bumpy section of dirt road, where my small tires and forward visibility allowed me to weave a careful line through the majority of the horrible holes at nearly full speed. In this section I tore past not one but two different vehicles, a pickup truck and a station wagon towing a trailer, both of which were weaving all over the road at 35MPH trying to avoid the potholes – and both of which had ripped past me earlier on a paved section.  That may have been the only time I’ve actually passed anyone on a highway this entire trip of 8,000+ miles!

After dinner I continued to push on out of fear that rain might start again at any time and wanting to get as much road behind me as possible.  Finally, shortly after midnight I stopped for the night just north of the Arctic Circle, after traveling nearly 300 miles on the Dalton Highway in barely nine hours on the road.  The night sky was fairly clear for my first time in Alaska, so I set my alarm for 2:30AM in hopes to see the Northern Lights, but when I awoke the sky was still tinged with orange from the sun and no lights were to be seen.

The last couple hundred miles to Fairbanks were easy the next morning in spite of the cold and mostly overcast sky thanks to another dry road. I was prepared for the last twenty or so miles of the Dalton, which (also being the first northbound) are interestingly the worst the highway had to offer from a rocks/gravel perspective – I often wondered if this was deliberate to encourage people to give up early and turn around.


In all, the hardest part of the return journey was the pristine paved Elliot Highway leading back to Fairbanks, with many long uphill sections limiting me to 25MPH and wondering if the road would never end. After the Dalton, just sitting back with the throttle open and letting my scooter drive itself back to civilization felt like the longest 90 miles I’ve ridden in a long time.

Based on the amount of road construction they are doing on the Dalton Highway, I expect within a couple years you’ll be able to drive a Ferrari up to Deadhorse in a couple of hours. The road itself is not a worthy lure, though the scenery and wildlife is amazing – and it’s one of the only roads in the world where you can experience the Arctic Tundra in such a fashion. If pure road adventure is the order of the day, it may be the Dempster Highway is the last crazy journey into the Arctic Circle… but if you want to have an amazing view and experience something different, ride the Dalton.

The Bittersweet Final Push

On July 15, I left Washington DC with four simple goals: I wanted to swim in the Arctic Ocean, I wanted to have an amazing experience getting there, I wanted to inspire my friends and others to take risks and live life, and I wanted to raise money for a cause that’s important to me.

Today, just over a month later, I sit in Fairbanks Alaska preparing for the final grueling 500 miles up to the Arctic Ocean. I have traveled just over 7,500 miles and spent 28 of the past 32 days on my scooter, often from early morning to late at night. I’ve slept on the side of the road in a tent for all but six of those nights. I’ve seen much of the varied terrain that North America has to offer, from plains to prairies to lakes to mountains to glaciers and forests. I’ve been nearly face to face with wild bears and wolves without a cage or fence. I’ve been soaked through to my skin and shivering in pain from cold, been blistered and red from heat and wind and sun, swollen from bee and wasp stings, and bled from many random scrapes and cuts and burns. I have met an amazing amount of incredibly cool people, from the great kids in Kirkland Lake up to the wicked welder in Fairbanks. Life is so varied, and I’ve been honored to experience such a wide slice of that variance during this trip.

Tomorrow I will hop on Red again after a long two day break and crush those final miles to Deadhorse, up the Dalton Highway. It will likely be very cold and very wet on a muddy gravel road, and I’ve no idea if it will take me three days or six. I will have to carry enough food, water, and gas to survive potentially three days in the wilderness on one of the longest uninhabited sections of highway in the USA. I have little doubt at this point that when I get there, I will have clearly fulfilled the first three of my goals for this trip. It will have been an epic ride, and scooters everywhere will be jealous of Red.

The thing that gets me down is that I’ve completely fallen short on my final goal. It bugs me because I know why – fundraising isn’t easy, it’s something that requires a lot of effort and work and constant attention. I admit that I really hoped that if I focused on the journey, on sharing the experience, on letting good things balance out, that it would happen without that attention… and I’m a bit disappointed to realize now that this was a romantic, unrealistic idea – but then, that’s me at times.

I’m not going to give up, though. I’m going to meet my original goal. In fact, I’ve made a decision that is going to ensure I meet it:

Until we reach my original goal of raising $5000 for the American Brain Tumor Association, I am not going to stop traveling around on my scooter. Once I reach Deadhorse, I’m going to go back down the Alaska Highway to 37, take that south through Vancouver and into Washington, then head south into California and east towards home. Whether I have to ride another 8,000 miles or 50,000 miles, I’m not giving up until we meet that goal.

The Story of a North Face Jacket

It’s a simple love story, really. It started in January last year when I was preparing to ride my Vmax from San Diego back to Washington DC in the dead of winter.  I needed something that would keep me warm at temperatures equivalent to -10+F due to windchill and I knew the North Face ski pants I had picked up on the way out did the trick (when layered appropriately).  I walked into REI San Diego and ended up spending more money than I have ever spent on a single piece of non-formal clothing, walking out with an awesome red Hyvent North Face hardshell. Amazingly, it exceeded all my expectations – with three fleece shirts, a down jacket, and the North Face hard shell I looked like a giant puffy red ball, but I actually stayed warm in temperatures equivalent to -30+F when I encountered a massive cold front on the east coast.  Even more amazing, the shell kept me dry (and warm) when riding for five hours through a tropical storm in Florida (everything I owned was soaked, except my chest and legs).  When I arrived back in DC, there was no doubt I had gotten my money’s worth.  I could have thrown away the jacket there and been happy. I loved it though, and would never do such a thing.  Instead it’s become one of my most treasured possessions, and I’ve taken it with me on adventures to four continents since.  It kept me warm and dry on the altiplano in Peru and Bolivia when I rode up and down freezing mountain roads and crossed deserts at night.  I stayed fashionable and cute at home in DC during the fall and spring rains, and played warm and dry during Snowpocalypse I and II when others stayed inside afraid of the cold.  It protected me from monsoon rains in India and kept me company all the way to 18,000 feet in the Nepalese Himalayas – and kept me safe when I slid down a 200+ foot scree slope while suffering from Acute Mountain Sickness, suffering not a single tear.  I looked damn good wandering the streets of Amsterdam on Queen’s Night in it, too. Not only does it keep me safe, but it takes care of my gear, too.  My trusty Panasonic Lumix FS10 always rides in the front left pocket, my wallet and funds in the front right.  My cell phone or MP3 player can always be found in the middle inner zip pocket, and there’s almost always a map tucked into the goggle pocket on the inside.  Sometimes I’ll even shove water and food inside for easy access, zip it up and head out. Now, it’s taking care of me as I ride my scooter to the Arctic Circle.  In the last 5000+ miles, I’ve already encountered freezing rain and chilling weather by the bundle.  Every day starts out cold and even as the day warms up, my North Face shell stays on to protect me from the wind, sand, dirt, rocks, and bugs that I constantly smash into.  On this adventure, it even tells people what I’m doing and why, as the biggest piece of real estate available for signage on my person.  As I head north up the Alaska highway into colder and stronger weather, I do so confident in the safety and security of my jacket. One of the most amazing things about my hardshell isn’t even how durable it is or how well it cuts the wind or how it’s managed to hold up relatively intact through the brutal abuse I’ve put it through (I’ve even used it as a mat to get a bike out of the sand)…  nope, it’s the simple fact that in a year and a half of wear, tear, and travel I’ve only even bothered to wash it once – and it still smells good enough to use as a pillow every night. I love my North Face jacket, and I don’t care who knows about it!

The Alaskan Freakin’ Highway

I still can’t figure out how I feel after the last three days on the Alaskan Highway. It all started so well leaving Dawson Creek, a beautiful sunny day with only a bit of frustrating wind to hold me back. Traffic wasn’t bad, the road was nice, the scenery was green, and all was well. Except for those evil looking clouds in the distance…

By the early afternoon, those evil looking clouds were no longer in the distance. In fact, they were pouring evil cold rain on my head.  Now, rain itself isn’t so bad, especially a fairly mild rain. It’s easy to walk around town or run to your car and not get too wet. Riding through it on a motorcycle or a scooter is something entirely different though. First of all you get completely soaked because of your speed – I mean, really soaked. It’s like standing under a shower, everything gets wet regardless.

Next, you lose a ton of visibility. The clouds block the sun so there’s low light, then your dark tinted goggles work against you. Except they’re covered with water on the outside and condensation on the inside so it doesn’t matter much either way. Then there’s the rain pelting you with raw physical force, smashing into your face and causing constant pinpricks of pain. Don’t forget the constant pitter-patter on your helmet, either, like sitting under a tin roof.

And of course, there’s that whole coefficient of friction issue, where now the road surface is much more slippery – except you don’t know how much more slippery, how much each different road surface is affected, whether you will slide off that shiny bit at an angle in that turn or if it’s actually grippier than the rough bit… Oh, and you’re on the Alaskan Highway, so let’s add random spots of gravel, mud, faux-gravel, and all sorts of other crazy crap that you aren’t sure how to deal with most of the time.

Okay, you have a picture in your head now. Expand it – don’t forget that 90% of the vehicles on this road are semi-trucks or RV’s, so you have these huge things whipping past you at twice your speed. They throw water up at you everywhere which sucks, but isn’t remotely as bad as the vortex trailing behind them that tries to either push or pull you across the road randomly, almost completely overwhelming at times.

Then add the fact that it’s in the high 40’s, you’re soaking wet, riding at 40MPH, and freakin’ freezing. So cold that you have a deathgrip on the handlebars with hands you can barely unwind, feet that would be numb except they hurt so bad (don’t worry, keep telling yourself it’s not below freezing so they can’t be frostbitten… can they?!), legs so cold and cramped up that you can’t even get off the scooter without falling over when you stop… Yeah, it’s awesome.

Seriously, it is awesome. Why, I don’t know. It just is. Maybe it helps when you sing “you are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” over and over again for hours. Powerful song.

In any case, that was my first few days on the Alaska Highway. Setting up camp in the rain was no picnic either, and of course packing up in the morning in the rain is always a pain. Let’s just say that when the rain stopped but the evil clouds stay, I didn’t quite celebrate… but when I came around a mountain this afternoon and saw a patch of blue sky far in the distance I almost cried. Hours later when I finally reached it I rode down the road counting down the seconds until I rode into a patch of sunlight, it was so beautiful.

Now I’m sunburned because I didn’t put on suntan lotion this morning because it was pouring rain. I just can’t win, eh? At least I got to take pictures today!

Red’s Dead, Baby, Red’s Dead

Actually, Red is fine – I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pay homage to Pulp Fiction (“Whose chopper is this?  Zed’s.  Who’s Zed?”).

Two days ago as I left Edmonton through the small farm roads of Alberta, I was e-mailing back and forth with Ryan Jeffries at Scooterworks USA about my issues.  After a lot of back and forth including me sending him mp3’s of my engine sounds he agreed that it sounded fine and came to the conclusion that the impacted plugs may have been due to carbon buildup in the exhaust with bits breaking off and impacting the plug.  At this point it was just wait-and-see and pay careful attention to Red’s every whim looking out for any signs of engine damage.

I just got Red back from the mechanics at Scooterville Montana and Ryan was right – there was a lot of gunk in the carb and tons of buildup in the exhaust.  They cleaned it all out, gave him a bit of a tune-up and now Red is rocking just like the good old days.  He sounds great, moves fast, and cruises smooth.  Next time I start having troubles I’m going to make sure to stick to a small-town mechanic outside a holiday weekend instead of trying to find some big city hot-shot whose first assumption is that my engine is five seconds away from becoming a grenade!

Mad thanks to Ryan at Scooterworks and Ryan at Scooterville (yes two Ryan scooter mechanics) both for helping me out with this issue – I went a thousand plus miles out of my way all because of some bad gas most likely!  It was totally worth it though, as I met some really cool people along the way, especially in Edmonton, Calgary, and down south (plus got a ton of signatures on the scoot)…  and that night in the storm in Glacier National Park was for the ages.

Tonight I relax again in Missoula then it’s back on the road to Deadhorse.  By the time I get there I’ll have likely traveled almost 8000 miles, and I’ll still need to get back home!  Here we go again…

The Dilemma

After a brief moment of happiness thinking I was using the wrong plug, I found out I wasn’t.  As a result, the fact that the last two plugs have come out impacted implies there is something potentially very wrong with Red.  I rode around to two mechanics in Edmonton and both agreed – worse, they both said they’d need to do an entire teardown to investigate and that this would cost up to a thousand dollars Canadian!  Even better, one wouldn’t be able to get to it until Tuesday and the other shop said middle of next week.  Add the cost of a hotel for all those days and things look quite dreary.

This is definitely something I didn’t consider on this trip – I’m entirely too used to third world mechanics tearing down and rebuilding things from scratch for pennies.  Genuine isn’t a global brand like Yamaha or Honda, so I can’t find a dealer up here to work on it under warranty (in fact, the big dealers won’t touch it).  The end result is that I’m facing a dilemma.

Do I continue on, sticking to low RPM (thus reduced inertia in the piston – the fact that it runs completely fine for awhile and both times the plug was impacted happened shortly after or during 45+MPH runs) and speed and hope that I can nurse Red through the rest of the trip?  Or do I turn tail for the US and find a dealer that can fully check it out?

It looks like the best bet for the latter is Scooterville Montana in Missoula, about 600 miles from Edmonton.  Then I can head west a bit and go all the way up highway 97 to Alaska. 

I think maybe that’s what I’ll have to do.  It may mean losing a week but at least it won’t mean losing tons of money.  This is adventure!

Road Zen

The day after riding hours in the rain and cold through the mountains of Quebec, the switch flipped for me.  It happens to me on long trips, which is perhaps one of the reasons I enjoy them so much – suddenly the world just fades away and becomes almost a shadow that only extends for a few meters around me.  Time doesn’t pass so much as it flits past in a series of snapshots, very much like in the video I posted – blurs of images followed by comparatively excruciatingly slow experiences.

A bird flying three feet away me for less than a second, but I can see all the detail of its feathers and stare deep into its left eye before the moment blurs and it’s gone.  A chipmunk crossing the road in front of me and I somehow know, a hundred yards away, that it’s going to be confused – slamming to a halt as he wrenches his body left and right in front of me, torn by indecision, only to stand on his hind legs and berate me before finally running off to the right.  A dragonfly floating in the air in front of me, not moving as I speed towards it – I duck my head at the last second and the dragonfly slams into my helmet instead of my face, one final moment of buzzing wings flaring through my ears, my brain processing this sound only after the impact.  The shirtless guy leaning out the window of a minivan at 65MPH to pump his fist and yell “YEAAAAAAAAH!” as he drives past.

There’s also the strange interactions with people around me.  I often find myself bemoaning the lack of joy in the “first world,” the way Americans especially have completely lost the ability to experience wonder at the world around them once they reach adulthood (a symptom of the “rat race” and the core reason I’ve taken so much time off – I was trapped myself).  I see this showcased with Canadians around me as well, like the border guard who didn’t understand why I wouldn’t “just fly to Alaska” or the child who gets all excited about my scooter and points it out only to be told “that’s nice” by her mother.  Unsurprisingly it’s the cities where this seems to pop up far more than in the country, but it’s still pervasive…  if it’s not on a big movie screen or a TV it’s not entertainment.  We are so jaded.

If there’s one thing I could change in the world, I think this would be it – bring back joy and wonder to us “civilized” folks.  That’s partially what I hope to do by my blog, photos, and videos, give people inspiration to see the wonder in the world.

If you’re reading this, just think about it for a minute.  How many times in the last day have you seen something that should have made you stop and absorb the moment, but instead you shrugged it off?  Something as simple as a leaf falling from a tree in front of you or a child yelling on the train because it’s a new experience for them.  You can’t just live your life, you have to experience it.  Find and treasure those moments of joy.

If this attitude allows me to not only survive but thrive on and enjoy the experience of riding a scooter for 10+ hours a day across thousands of miles (which, let’s be honest, is misery), think about how it might help you get through a day at the office!