I signed up to be a vendor at the 2007 BMW National Rally in West Bend, Wisconsin, and I finally figured out that I could save money and have more fun by shipping my products and riding out to the rally. Sadly, my husband, Bruce, had to work. But I couldn’t make up any more excuses as to why I couldn’t ride to the National. I wanted so badly to be on the bike and the R75/7 was crying to be ridden, knowing that, come August, I was booked for shows almost every weekend until mid December.

Bruce made it easy for me to go, changing the oil, inspecting the bike and advising me to get new tires. All the maps came out as I pored over possible routes. It was the long way or no way. I had always wanted to explore Michigan and get a taste of the Upper Peninsula. From northeast Ohio it would be a fine ride. I wrapped up loose ends in the office, crammed products and displays into nine boxes and sent them out Friday. By Sunday night ten days worth of clothes (I was NOT doing laundry), extra bike parts and a quart of oil had all found room in the old Krausers and tankbag. I was fully packed and ready to leave Monday morning.

At a rest stop in Toledo I ran into my first rally-riders, Helmut from Germany and his buddy from Ohio. They were headed for the Mackinac Bridge that spans the two parts of Michigan, and took off ahead of me on fast bikes. It sounded like a good destination for the first night and I followed them up the road at my own pace.

Despite my efforts to avoid the congestion around Chicago by going through Michigan, the ride from Toledo to Saginaw was every bit as excruciating. The endless traffic and one-lane-constipated road construction in the 80-degree heat caused rivers of sweat to pool beneath me. At one point all cars were pulling into the left lane which was backed up as far as the eye could see. I inched along with them until I spied a sign that read: “Lane Closed 1 Mile Ahead”. I thought about it for a second, spun the handlebars, gassed it and flew up the empty right hand lane, pulling in behind another bike at the last minute right before the blockage point, getting through in minutes, and of course feeling the bad vibes of all the stalled motorists as they watched me speed by. Sorry folks, my air-cooled engine would not have survived that torture. I just felt terrible about it....

I hurried away from the cities going north on Hwy 75. The next hours of riding through the windblown woods calmed me, even if it was on the slab. The landscape was transformed into heavily scented pine forests. An owl with a huge head glided silently in front of me, ducking into the sheltering branches. The sun cast long flickering shadows across the road, mesmerizing me until I had to start belting rock songs into my helmet to stay alert. I found a clean, inexpensive motel just before Mackinaw City, the Americana, run by a friendly gal, Liz McKenzie. It had a great overhang in front of all the rooms, ideal for packing bikes in the rain, though we had none of that. The weather was perfect.

Brunch at Darrow’s the next morning was outstanding. I took some time to park under the bridge and get some pictures of this famous structure. The Mackinac Bridge is the longest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere, with a total length of 26,372 feet. In 1884 it became obvious that the experiment to provide all-year service across the Straits by boat was a failure. If a great east-west route were ever to be established through Michigan, a bridge or tunnel was necessary. The only a matter of cost. In 1953, after decades of indecision and funding problems, $99,800,000 worth of Mackinac Bridge bonds were bought by investors all over the country. This five-mile bridge, including approaches, and the world's longest suspension bridge between cable anchorages, was designed by the renowned engineer Dr. David B. Steinman. Building began in 1954 and the bridge was open to traffic at the end of 1957. Many events in the area center around the bridge, including an annual bridge walk at the end of July. This year will mark the 50th anniversary of the bridge. Get more info at www.mackinacbridge.org. It was a thrill to ride across the bridge; it seemed to go on forever and the view was spectacular. A true architectural marvel.

On the other side of the bridge, I veered west on Route 2, a great fast road that takes you across the bottom of the Upper Peninsula. Despite the large amount of travelers, the long straight stretches made passing effortless. I was humming right along with a couple of anonymous Beemers, getting excited about the rally, never seeing any cops, though I was told they were there hiding. They either never saw us or they ignored us knowing that we were bringing revenue to their economy.

I played leapfrog for a while with another Beemer rider on a handsome R1150GS. At a stoplight he told me he was from Quebec. I rooted around in the long-untraveled caverns of my brain for some smart and sassy phrases from French 101, but luckily the light turned green and we were away. Up the road we found ourselves behind a line of lollygagging, non-BMW motorcyclists. In a straight stretch with no opposing traffic in sight, I didn’t hesitate to pass the whole lot of them, together with several slow cars, leaving them all behind for a more open road.

Half an hour later, the GS pulled in beside me at the first Wisconsin gas station, and we were finally able to introduce ourselves and talk. His English was great so I had no need to excavate my rusty French. We were both hungry and decided to continue our conversation over a lip-smacking German sausage supper at Schroeder’s Bay View Restaurant on Hwy 41 in Marinette. Ivon told me that he is a long time BMWMOA Ambassador who participates in many rallies, teaches motorcycle skills and helped to instigate several safety programs in Quebec City.

After dinner we took a detour to the western shore of Lake Michigan, found a couple of rooms overlooking the lake and went for a sunset walk up the beach to another, larger motel for dessert. A wonderful, relaxing evening. We got up early in search of breakfast and made it to the rally by noon. Perfect timing. I had plenty of time to pitch my tent, register as a vendor and get my booth set up.

Getting the tent up in the 40mph wind was exciting. My huge 3-person tent made several serious attempts to get away, but with the help of the neighbors and some borrowed twine, we managed to secure it. Well sort of. It was still leaning over severely to one side threatening to rip its stakes out of the ground. Miraculously, they held. That was just the first day of a 4-day blow. I have affectionately renamed the state: “Windconsin”.

I went to bed early that night after a falling-off-the-bone rib dinner. Coming home to my spacious tent felt wonderful as did the cool evening temperatures. With my trusty earplugs in to keep out the howling wind noise it was not long before I succumbed to oblivion after three days on the bike and another thousand miles under my belt.

I talked to many new customers during the next three days behind my booth. But what really made me a happy girl was all the repeat business from the folks I had met at the last two Nationals. Many people stopped to check out the storyboard of my 25-year riding history and talk to me about the dozen years I spent in Alaska.

Back at the rally site when the first day was over, the German Polka band brought us to our feet. I demonstrated the simple steps of the polka, learned from my mother in the kitchen at age seven, to a potential dance partner and we were off, whirling away, trying not to smash into anyone and laughing our heads off at the silly dance.

The blues bands, that played later and during the following evening, were more up my ally. I ran into my new German and Canadian friends and we danced up a storm, quenching our thirst on some tasty microbrews. It was great to see members from our local club as well as several who had moved to other states. Though I did not want to pay the consequences by overdoing it, I can still remember when I could party all night and kick butt the next day. Now it’s quality not quantity. Ah, the compromises of old age!

At my booth, demonstrating my pain relieving cream, I got to rub the necks of several renowned BMW riders: Carol “Skirt” Youorski, tiny, wiry motorcycle picker-upper extraordinaire who teaches classes in how to do it properly and who would never be caught without a skirt over her leggings; Helen Two-Wheels, now sadly rolling on four wheels after yet another accident, but still making fabulous motorcycle touring bags; Vince Winkle, editor of the BMWMOA News; and Sam Munson, vendor coordinator, who, despite 3 cracked ribs from his mishap enroute to the rally, was on his feet and working the whole time. I was honored to give them some relief.

Sunday morning, after breakfast, settling my account with UPS and hurried goodbyes to my new friends, I wasted no time packing up. I wanted to get as far as I could into the U.P in order to have a full day of exploring Michigan the following day. After the Mackinaw Bridge I headed west toward the eastern shore of Lake Michigan taking the small road along Cecil Bay towards the point. At one of the many pullouts, I took a refreshing walk to the deserted beach. I didn’t go further out on the peninsula to Wilderness State Park, instead I backtracked and veered south through Bliss, then further west in search of the “Tunnel of Trees” road I had heard about at the rally. Hwy 119, running south out of Cross Village, is a 20-mile, one-and-a-half lane ribbon of asphalt that has to be a “Perfect 10”. I moseyed along in second gear under an incredibly peaceful, emerald canopy of trees, so low and dense it did indeed feel like you were crawling through a dark tunnel, with occasional peaks through the trees of blue vistas of Lake Michigan. This road is worth going out of your way to experience, its only drawback being that it is too short. It ends in the town of Harbor Springs, a bubbly place with eateries overlooking a busy marina, where I found Stafford’s Pier Restaurant and the best chowder ever, a delectable combination of clams, lobster, scallops and shrimp. “Ooh la la!” as my friend, Ivon, would say.

Rolling south on Hwy 31, the traffic was thick through Traverse City but the road opened wide again as I headed west on Hwy 72 toward Empire and the Sleeping Bear Dunes. The history of this dune formation and surrounding ecology made for a fun and informative afternoon of exploration. I toured the small maritime museum where two beautiful old restored dories lived, open double-ended skiffs that were often used to fish in Alaska as well, due to their stability. Then I rode the scenic dune tour that highlighted a dozen stopping places, each telling another part of the story of how the dunes were formed and what their future is. Later, I squeezed my pale body into my swimsuit for a plunge into chilly Lake Michigan. Crystal turquoise water moistened the lovely sandy beaches, and, as I strolled along one of the giant sand dunes that glowed in the evening sun, dozens of colorful sailboats raced northward on the water, spinnakers fully puffed.

A short walk up the side of the dune allowed me to see the herbs that make up the dune ecosystem. Plants that I would normally see in meadows and moist areas of Ohio amazingly grew here in the sand and wind. The view from the top was awesome and worth the laborious hike. At that moment, the peak of my solo ride, I released the rest of my stress to the wind, and, as the natives of the area would say, the Great Spirit Manitou blew peace into my soul.

The vacation wasn’t over quite yet though. I had intended to have dinner in nearby Benzonia then ride a few more hours to shorten the distance home. A couple of locals turned me on to the nicer of two restaurants in town saying, “You’ll be able to relax better at the Brookside Inn.” And were they ever so right! This long-running restaurant had been built and expanded over the last 25 years in a gorgeous setting of giant willow trees alongside a brook. Over a steak and German red cabbage dinner I chatted with the waiter/manager, Rick, who also rode. He mentioned that I should check out the theme rooms upstairs, complete with hot tubs, before I left. I didn’t think I could afford their $200+ per night package deals, but when he made me an offer of $65 for the night I simply couldn’t refuse.

I was escorted to “The Copper Room” that sported a giant copper-colored hot tub surrounded by rustic, rough-lumber paneling, primitive decor, a tiny wood stove with burnable log and a four-posted king-sized bed. Alas I had to soak solo. And in the morning I soaked again, lounging about, watching the not-so-nice weather report, neck deep in hot bubbling water, squeezing the last drops of pleasure from the trip.

Heading southeast across the state on Hwy 115 was a blast. This 2-lane, straight-as-an-arrow blitz was a surprisingly good alternative to the slab, which I did have to pick up later. At every rest stop many people came up to me asking where I had been, where I was going and what type of bike I was riding. The R75 got most of the attention, but every once in a while I got some looks too. Later, when I saw my helmet head in the bathroom mirror, I understood why.

I traveled south, eyeing the graying sky with suspicion. Thunderheads were building quickly and it looked like I was in for some severe rain. But then I was surprised to see the clouds moving quickly east in front of me, allowing me to ride in the sunny corridor left in their wake. Until Toledo. The roads were so wet from the passing cloudbursts I was drenched within minutes just from the spray, not wanting to stop on the side of the road, thinking the next rest stop was only a few miles away. There I wolfed a slice of pizza, plastered my rain suit over my wet chaps and jacket, and headed east toward Cleveland, chasing the tail end of that bad-boy storm. I was riding faster than it was moving, and soon I was immersed in torrents of rain. Riding in Alaska had hardened me to wet and cold, but it is always a challenge to battle the wind-chills, especially when moist. It was the first time I was ecstatic when a hot flash came over me, warming my core. Ha! I knew they were good for something.

Gritting my teeth and holding tightly onto the handlebars, I set my head down against the relentless spray from the trucks that pelted me incessantly. Thank goodness for my new tires! At one point, massive construction had severely muddied the road and I was caught between a truck in front of me and one to my left. They unwittingly sprayed me with yellow slime. Our travels together culminated in one of the truck tires plunging into a deep rut, gooshing me with a tidal wave of dirty-diaper water. It caused moments of total blindness, and at the same time the road swerved, a recipe for disaster.