It has become a truth I can no longer ignore: at three score and ten, my wheels are turning more slowly, metaphorically as well as literally. No surprise or shame in that. Time takes its toll, as it must. Still, the talent going forward is to carry on and thrive, regardless. A two-wheeled road trip comes to mind, with mountain landscapes and winding tarmac filling the agenda. The idea arrives as imagined whispers, hoarse and fleeting, emanating from the far corner of my garage, where the old motorcycle stands in shadow, waiting at the ready. “We’ve done this before,” the whispers say, “and shall again.” There’s still steam in the boiler. I can feel it.

Built in January 1972, my BMW R 50/5 has been around, and around, and around the block so many times it would be dizzy, if it had a noggin to dizzy. The odometer reads 87,000 miles, a fiction I suspect. 187,000 sounds closer to the truth. Long before this BMW rolled into my garage, someone racked up those miles, likely on long tours, as BMWs of that era were the epitome of touring motorcycles. In seven years of ownership, I’ve added about 10,000 miles to the clock, mostly on secondary roads at a sympathetic pace.

We’re a pair, I guess, old enough to know better yet stubborn all the same. New parts help—a pair of replacement knees for me and an upgrade to 600cc with reconditioned cylinder heads for the bike. That, and the concept of simplicity. Born of an earlier time, the BMW and I are a study in analog technology and temperament. Known as an Airhead, the bike is powered by an air-cooled, overbuilt, under-stressed opposed flat twin. Ignition points and a condenser provide the spark, while a four-speed gearbox and shaft drive put modest power to the pavement. An electric starter is the only nod to modernity. As for me, I am also a product of the pre-digital age, preferring the mechanical to anything that smells of ones and zeros. Like the raven and my Neanderthal cousins, I am a tool user and enjoy nothing better than turning wrenches on old machinery. An aged, high-mileage Slash 5 BMW such as mine needs plenty of maintenance and care, which I’m pleased to provide. We attend to each other’s needs, both in spirit and deed.

Here in the mountain west, winter can be tenacious. It is not unusual for spring to retain more than a whiff of winter well into April. For example, the forecast for my three-day ride around eastern Oregon the first week of May calls for overnight temperatures near freezing, with highs in the 50s. Maybe 60° if the sun makes an appearance. And rain. Riding soaked and cold in a 50° rain over a long afternoon on an unfaired motorcycle is not something you can wish away, although frequent stops for coffee help. So, the Aerostich Roadcrafter jacket and pants come off the hangar as I pack, while fleece riding gear fills one pannier. I could wait a couple of weeks for warmer weather, but I’m antsy to be turning wheels and don’t mind a chancy forecast. I prefer a mix. Sometimes you’ve got to earn those miles.

Living in the foothills outside Boise offers an unencumbered escape. No city stoplights for us. No gaggle of commuters caught up in the work-consume-die urban struggle slows our advance. Rural farm roads will take us to the Oregon border. Mostly flat country here, with straight roads bisecting flood-irrigated fields just now coming alive with new growth. Stoop-shouldered workers in broad hats hoe row crops beneath placid, milky-blue skies, while the old Airhead and I thrum past at a blissful 50 miles per hour. Wind buffets my helmet, the tach needle wavers just shy of 4,000 rpm, and the flat twin sings its song—all is right in our world as the morning chill dissipates.

It is about 60 miles to the micro-burg of Mitchell, our destination for the night. We stop for gas in Vale, an hour’s ride into Oregon, where I give the motorcycle a visual inspection. You can’t take anything for granted when traveling far from home on a 53-year-old bike. In a way, it becomes a conversation between man and machine—an oil leak, a loose or missing fastener, a frayed control cable, a dangling bit of wiring—all speak a language of something going wrong. An unraveling is best attended to in the parking lot rather than somewhere along the road as dusk comes on. On this day, no deficiencies are noted, so I press the starter button, ease out onto Oregon 26, and accelerate through the gears as the city limits sign fades in my rearview mirror.

As we ride this road, Willow Creek becomes our guide to points west. Vast acreages of irrigated farmland surround our advance, bright green with first-growth alfalfa, framed by grassy hills and basalt outcrops. Chukar Partridge call from rocky escarpments; Rainbird sprinklers ratchet noisily atop center pivots. For this rider, all secondary sound is swallowed by the rushing wind, by the 60 mph hum of wheels on the road.

Once past Unity, more a somnolent slowdown than a town, the landscape changes. Rolling hills of Juniper give way to a mix of Ponderosa Pine and sage. The road twists and turns uphill through narrowing clefts that will eventually deliver us to a summit, an exciting introduction to Oregon’s Blue Mountains. The Airhead and I hunker down for the climb. With modest horsepower on tap, ample torque and a heavy flywheel that signs checks all the way to the summit. There’s a sizable gap between second and third gear, so we carry on in third, holding at about 60 through turns posted for 45. The pavement is billiard-table smooth, the turns open-sighted and properly cambered. All my senses are attuned to the road and the business at hand—hustling this old girl through a series of left/right turns at a prudence-be-damned pace. The summit arrives all too soon. We pull to the side of the road, side stand down, ignition off. Removing my jacket, I catch the faint aroma of hot metal, gasoline, oil, and sweat tincturing the pine-scented air. The BMW’s engine plinks softly as the cylinders cool.

The weatherman’s threat of morning showers has not played out. Sun filters through a skein of filmy cirrus clouds as we descend into a broad, open valley. We’re clipping along at a steady pace beside the John Day River, swollen now by spring runoff. The distant grain elevators of Prairie City shine bright below a noonday sun. My empty stomach growls. The bike’s engine begins to stumble. I reach down and turn the gas petcocks to reserve as we approach town. First stop, the Chevron. Then across the street and through the doors of Chuck’s Little Diner. An empty stool at the counter beckons.

“What’ll it be, Hon?” croons Marge before I even have a chance to sit down.

My coffee arrives as Chuck, sporting his signature Hawaiian shirt, works the grill—eggs spatter, ham sizzles, potatoes brown. I’m just finishing last week’s Blue Mountain Gazette when the steaming plate arrives. Long-dead homesteaders stare down, confined for eternity within the numerous framed photos adorning the walls, while Marge refills my coffee cup for the third time. I leave a $10 tip on the counter.

Well fed and fully fueled, man and machine strike out into the afternoon. We’ve settled into our groove. I’m fully limbered up, and this old bike feels supple and agile beneath me as we accelerate, each gear change engaging with an audible clunk. The road gently serpentines through rolling farmland. The sun shines, birds sing, and cattle in the fields turn to watch as we rumble by. A sweetness pervades the air. I am enraptured in this moment—there is no future, there is no past, just the peace and contentment of turning wheels and rushing landscapes.

The road ahead unfolds as the hours pass. It dips and dives, twists and turns, traversing hills, hollers, and fire-scarred summits. The countryside morphs from green and lush to rocky and sparse, and back again. Farms are smaller now, and traffic thins to the occasional flatbed farm truck or an older American sedan favored by locals. My earlier euphoria has faded, replaced by a growing fatigue. We stop in Dayville for coffee, where I recharge and study the map. Mitchell is only 40 minutes away, or, to put it more succinctly, a cold IPA is calling my name at the TigerTown brew pub. From there, the Oregon Hotel is but a two-beer shamble. With the coffee cup drained, the Airhead and I depart Dayville like a weary horse and rider smelling the barn.

TigerTown’s IPA does not disappoint, nor does the curbside seating. One of the best ways to screw down the lid on a long day in the saddle is to set feet up, sipping a handcrafted brew while admiring your motorcycle parked 20 feet away. The BMW’s chrome-sided gas tank gleams; the low handlebars and bar-end mirrors impart a sense of motion even at rest; the engine remains oil-tight and unruffled after a 200-plus-mile day. Most roadworthy ‘72 Toaster Tank Airheads are collecting dust in motorcycle collections, worshiped but rarely ridden. As for its rider, many folks my age spend their afternoons playing canasta, pre-interred in a retirement community, marking time until the last gasp. My hardworking Airhead and I still have beating hearts, wheels to turn, and roads to explore. I toast the bike with the last swallow from my glass, reach around and pat myself on the back, then order another IPA, shored up by a cheeseburger and fries.

The rain begins sometime after midnight, rat-a-tat-tatting on the metal roof above my room. Daylight dawns wet and dreary. The window at the foot of the bed stands open, and the lace curtains blow inward. A Tomcat yowls in the distance, serving as a wake-up call. The Oregon Hotel offers no WiFi, no cell service, no AC, no TV and a shared bath down the hall. It is a historic two-story wooden-framed building, built in 1938 and in need of a serious brush-up, but doing so would ruin the homey patina of the place. You either love the creaky stairs, the drumming hot-water pipes, and the day(s)-old Danish that passes for breakfast or you don’t. The coffee’s hot and plentiful, though, and the sympathetic owners insisted I park my motorcycle under cover, alongside their ancient VW microbus. An act of kindness appreciated as I load the bike on this damp, shiver-fest of a morning.

Rolling the garage door open, I’m greeted by a gentle but steady rain. Everything in view appears a shade of gray, dressed in glistening softness beneath Mitchell’s sole streetlamp. Yet blue sky is peeking through above the rock-strewn hill across the road, providing some encouragement. Today’s ride leads back into the Blue Mountains proper. Leaving Oregon 26, we turn north onto a narrow, shoulderless road. Like most roads in these mountains, it is a paved iteration of the old wagon road that came before. It makes a brave attempt to follow the natural contours, seeking a path of least resistance in an uncooperative landscape. There is no plumb or level; you’re either climbing or descending, switchback by switchback, or chasing a fast-flowing stream along a tight canyon with no guardrails or road signage. In other words, this is a road where a lot is happening all the time. I’m forced to stay laser-focused on the ride, rather than be distracted by the slow trickle of water soaking my man parts. Taking a gravel pullout just past a bridge crossing, I get off the motorcycle to exchange my wet gloves for a dry pair. Looking down, it is impossible not to notice the fly of my pants gaping open, unzipped—not a wardrobe failure but a human one. My inner Homer Simpson strikes again. D’oh!

Cresting another rocky summit, a scatter of scared, burned trees materializes eerily, enveloped in a mix of fog and a brightening sky. The black pavement draws us downward toward another switchback. Despite the wet, limited visibility, and countless turns, we’ve achieved a harmony of sorts, a sense of balance. You ease back on the throttle, then downshift, using engine braking and a touch of front brake while tipping the motorcycle into the bend. It’s best to carry that light brake continuously to the apex of the turn. Then, once the exit becomes clear, accelerate gently out. A couple of times on this wet-road day, we’ve crossed a bit of sand mid-turn—I feel the motorcycle begin to drift sideways, maybe the rear tire steps out a few inches abruptly. Without thinking, I just react, making whatever small adjustments to throttle, lean angle, or brakes are necessary to keep us on two wheels. There is no magic or drama in this, but rather another moment melding man and machine as one.

Through the lifting fog and broken clouds, I can just make out the valley below. Sunlight flashes in rapid bursts through the trees as the road levels out, the turns open into sweeping arcs, and for the first time today we shift into top gear. Minutes later we’re paralleling a sluggish river, meandering quietly through meadowlands under a bright blue sky. The town of Spray awaits in the distance. Several cars full of churchgoers tailgate me, impatient for salvation as we roll into town. My salvation, such as it is, revolves around a hot lunch at the cafe across from the Sinclair station. Pulling up to the curb, the only sign of life is an old brown dog sleeping on the sidewalk below padlocked double doors. “Closed.” And not just for today. The window glass is covered in white butcher paper, and the gravel parking lot is thick with weeds. A brown dog heaves himself up and ambles away while I ask the green-haired, tattooed lady at the gas station where I might get lunch.

The DILLIGAF Coffee trailer is parked next to the American Legion Hall on the far side of town. Sided with rough-cut cedar and galvanized roofing, it’s shaded by the noontime shadow of a massive oak tree. A mom-and-pop outfit, the trailer is spic-and-span, bright and shiny—all hopeful signs. Like Napoleon’s army, I travel on my stomach, and after a latte and a thick panini sandwich, this rider is locked and loaded. But first I need some merch. I pick out a deep blue T-shirt imprinted with the DILLIGAF logo, a word I’ve encountered before but can’t quite pin down. As I pay the bill, it hits me: it’s an acronym for Does-It-Look-Like-I-Give-A-XXXX. The angelic, 50-something missus of the duo hands me my change and smiles sweetly. Surely, they don’t know. Was the name suggested by a prankster, and did they go with it without Googling? Or does this couple have a highly developed sense of humor, risking their business success on the ignorance of prudish locals in exchange for the rush of having a laugh with the ones that get it? My brain works this enigma like a loose tooth all afternoon.

If ever there were a road capable of seducing me, it would be the Middle Fork of the John Day River. The flowing water pulls us along, running fast and gin-clear in the straights, then slowing to a lazy walk as the river carves the widening valley into loopy oxbows. A patchwork of small pastures appears, then disappears behind a crowd of cottonwoods. Ospreys soar, Ponderosa pines tower, and cumulus clouds drift. Following this ribbon of pavement, I’m both humbled and alive in the moment, swinging through the turns like a monkey in a tree, branch by branch. The road is signed for 40 mph and we take that as gospel. This is open range; you’re apt to meet Old Bess and her calf mid-corner, or a John Deere pulling a hay rake occupying his side of the road and most of yours. The BMW and I drone on, the exhaust note barely a whisper. My mind drifts from thought to thought as the fence posts click by, mile after mile. The road finally diverges from the river, my reverie broken only by the approaching intersection. We turn into the Austin Junction Cafe parking lot, set on augmenting the afternoon’s mindfulness with a tank-full of premium and a 16-ounce Americano. The final miles to Baker City are propelled by 91 octane, caffeine, and bliss.

It was a treat to sleep in for a change, thanks to blackout curtains and an overindulgence in whiskey—not mine, but the Australians two doors down the hall who partied past midnight. Their rented Harleys are parked facing the window of my motel room. I envisioned being awakened at dawn by the concussive roar of three unmuffled V-twins revving in unison. Fortunately, the bourbon did its work and the dudes are MIA. Entering the crowded breakfast room, I half expected to see them, bleary-eyed and groaning over dry toast and coffee, but it was just me and what appeared to be a girls’ softball team, phone-obsessed and chatty. Thirty minutes later, the BMW is packed. Using a soft cloth wetted with the last of the morning dew, I wipe down my motorcycle, removing a few dead bugs and road grime. Tire pressures are spot on, and the crankcase oil sits at the dipstick full mark. The welcoming sun shines from an absolutely clear sky, the air balmy despite residual frost showing in the shadows. Our last day on the road just might turn out to be the best of the trip. I eagerly press the starter button. The engine fires up, briefly runs on one cylinder, then coughs, sputters, backfires, and dies. Looks like the Aussies aren’t the only ones MIA.

This is the first time the BMW has thrown me a spitball; although when you ride long distances on an old motorcycle, even a well-maintained one, there is a heightened possibility of breakdowns. In a perverse way, I welcome this Apollo 13 moment. To my mind, traveling by motorcycle should be a hopeful journey rather than an assured one. Some adversity along the way is to be expected, even embraced. Like those astronauts aboard their sick spacecraft, I know my machine front to back and am prepared for most contingencies. If fixing the problem is not possible, I’ll make the machine “work” somehow and limp home. Failing that, there’s always the ignominy of a bus ride back to Boise.

On this day, it did not take long to sort things out. Both spark plug wires were barely plugged into the ignition coils, causing an intermittent spark to each cylinder. I shoved the wires farther into the coils, making proper contact, and that was that. The engine started on the first roll-over, soon settling into an even, fast idle. Big smiles all around, despite the knowledge that those spark plug wires did not unplug themselves. I sense the hand of the Australians in this. They were well into their cups last night, stooging around the motorcycles in the parking lot, loudly raucous—an act of mischief would have come easily. If true, the Mister Rodgers side of my brain forgives them. If their aching pumpkin heads serve double duty as penance for the sabotage, so be it.

On this bluebird morning we turn for home, the ride mostly a backtrack of Day One, except for the crossing of a high pass on a road new to us. Google Earth shows Dooley Mountain Road as a curly mass of wiggles leading to a summit, and the same on the other side. I expect a goat track rather than a proper road, and that’s what we get—multi-generational chip seal, patched in places, broken in others, showing neither center line nor fog lines, maybe a lane and a half wide. Not my favorite, but there’s nothing here we can’t handle, though at best I expect a slowish, second-gear advance. We ascend through steep, uplifted hills once ravaged by wildfire. Extensive stands of burned timber interpose with green islands of living pines and a healthy understory. This post-fire mosaic continues as we climb, turn by turn, across sprays of gravel and fans of muddy sand littering the road.

At the summit, we abruptly ride out of the burn. Slowing for the coming descent, I see what looks like a large black dog lying dead on the shoulder. Intrigued, I park the motorcycle and cautiously approach the body. It’s a wolf, and she appears unmarked, composed as if merely asleep. There is no sign of impact from a vehicle, no blood or wounds of any kind. I firmly nudge the wolf with my boot. She’s stiff as a hardwood plank. Closer now—she lies on her left side, a lifeless eye stares unseeing, legs extended as if in a gentle mid-stride, her gleaming teeth bared in an angry rictus. As a matter of respect, I slowly drag the wolf into the nearby brush, arranging her beneath a wild rose bush heavy with budding flowers. She deserves a dignified resting place in death, and this is the best I can do. A pair of airborne ravens circle and caw urgently, while magpies hop from branch to branch, agitated, in the tree above my head. It seems I’ve interrupted their lunch. Retreating back to the BMW, I’m reminded yet again that in nature you’re either hunting up lunch or you are lunch. A sobering thought that tugs at the short hairs of this septuagenarian’s mortality. This death-in-the-afternoon scenario follows me down the hill and well into the warming day.

We manage to reach the intersection with Oregon 245 without further drama, thankfully. I was beginning to feel like a cowboy on the run, down to his last bullet in hostile territory. Turning left at the stop sign, we’re bound for Bridgeport along the Burnt River. The road is hard-packed gravel. We putter along the river’s edge—free-flowing here, laced with beaver ponds there. I can hear the trill of red-winged blackbirds amid the cattails, swallows swoop, and a swarm of bees’ buzzes. We cross the river on an old wooden-decked, riveted-iron bridge that delivers us to a dozen houses and a one-room post office that comprise the town of Bridgeport. It also hosts the Mercantile, where this hungry cowpoke will eat a late lunch and rest his weary steed.

The first thing you notice when entering the Merc is the sharp ring of the single bell hung from a leather strap above the door, then the bang as it slams shut behind you. A grizzled gent in Carhartt overalls looks up from his chair by the wood stove. The young woman behind the counter smiles, her red hair done up in a bun with a pencil stuck in it. This building is old as bedrock, heavily framed and unpainted. The rough-cut flooring emits a satisfying creak with every step. The shelves are full of a little bit of everything: from gardening tools to fresh produce, cartons of cow’s milk to Dr. Naylor’s udder balm, and a picture for your wall to the hammer and nail to hang it. I grab a freshly-made sandwich and draw coffee from the carafe on the counter.

“Where you from?” she asks as I dig through my wallet for bills.

“Boise,” I say, and briefly describe my trip.

“Nice motorcycle.” She cranes her neck to get a better look at the BMW parked outside the windows, smiles again, wistfully this time, then pulls the pencil from her hair and goes back to the New York Times crossword lying by her elbow.

Nice motorcycle, indeed. Over the past few days, my old Airhead has traveled 700 miles without complaint or protest. It’s ready for more—as am I. These two-wheeled getaways are an antidote to the ordinary, the humdrum, becoming gentle adventures where anything might happen and often does. Epiphanies arrive unbidden, and long-unanswered questions find answers. Like a time traveler, this rider arrives home not quite the same man who left. About four more hours in the saddle will take us to Boise. I’ll hammer out the remaining miles, planning the next trip as we run down this one. The goal is to pull into the garage full of hope and anticipation for the future. We’ve got to keep those big wheels turning. Life is motion until it’s not.