Sometimes in life you get handed lemons. They say you are supposed to make lemonade, but sometimes life hands you a cane … pure sugar cane. On those occasions you make sugar cane juice. The following is the healthy dose I got served while exploring some incredible areas of Brazil via motorcycle. What I recount can in no way do justice to the euphoria experienced under the influence of the country that claims “The City of God” as its own.

 

It all started while sitting in a barber shop in Atibaia, Brazil.

“Café?”

“Huh? … Oh, yes, por favor. Brigado.”

Everywhere you go in Brazil, somebody is either making you coffee or handing you a small mug. This time was no different as I sipped on some of the most incredible coffee I’ve ever had, courtesy of the barber’s home grown coffee beans. I sat looking through a glass door enjoying my coffee when I noticed several young ladies approach a building nearby, one by one. They all had a couple bills in their hand. Out of curiosity I walked out the front door to see a group of women lined up to get on the back of motorcycles and hand the riders cash. Motoboys. That’s what they call them. I just stared. What a great job … girls … Brazilian girls … money … and motorcycles. I stood there trying to figure out what was going on; it’s something you don’t see in the USA. It wasn’t long before I got my answer.

 

“O que que voce esta olhando?”

“He wants to know what you’re looking at,” explained my wife.

“Oh, the ah … motorcycles.”

Valdenir, the barber, while waving a razor, explained to me what was happening.

“They are moto-taxi drivers. They take you all over city. Very cheap. They deliver anything or anyone.”

A short note on these “motoboys,” if I may. If you think it’s dangerous to ride in DC, NYC, or even LA, think again. These guys make DC traffic look like hopscotch. They throw caution to the wind in some of the world’s largest and most compact cities. Sao Paulo has something like 19 million people in it (squeezed in only 19,000 square miles)! They weave in and out of cars, trucks, buses, ignore most traffic signs and lights, and give a swift kick to your side mirror if you get too close. In addition, all motorcyclists are by law required to have a helmet. Except many of these guys simply slip their arm through the strap, the helmet wrapped around their elbow.

 

If you think that’s crazy, try working for Domino’s in Brazil. Apparently a key qualification for employment is to be willing to see how close to death you can get while delivering pizza. I mean these guys risk their lives for a $9 pizza and breadsticks in some of the world’s most extreme traffic, oblivious to most laws or traffic patterns. Either that’s true dedication to the Domino’s business model or the motoboys are brainwashed during orientation to avoid all safe riding behaviors. It’s something you have to see to truly believe. I’ve decided that if I get into the TV industry, I’m going to start a reality TV show about these motoboys (any potential investors can contact my people and we can work out the “details”).

Anyway, as I continued to stare I couldn’t help but wonder if Valdenir was trying to determine if I was looking more at the motorcycles or the “cargo” on the back (my wife, too). To be clear though, I only remember what the motorcycles looked like, seriously. Nearly all were small displacement Hondas, 125 or 150cc’s, most black or red. Nevertheless, before I could think of a reason to justify staring at uninspiring small bore Hondas with Brazilian women on the back, Valdenir asked a well-timed question, “You ride moto-sickle?” Well, that would be an understatement, like asking if fish swim in water. In turn, what followed was a man I never met offering me to follow him to his house 10 minutes away (with customers still walking in the door) to borrow his motorcycle for however long. Only in Brazil I guess.

 

This story gets better…

Shortly after the rendezvous with Valdenir at his residence, I was shopping in Atibaia around lunch time at a T-shirt shop looking for soccer jerseys to bring back to the USA. The young guy behind the counter, Regis, spoke with me in English, but with a heavy Portuguese accent. At first we struggled to understand each other fully, but soon we started talking about a topic we heard each other clearly on, motorcycles (my wife simultaneously stuffing cotton in her ears).

11:56 p.m.

Whooom, click, whoooooom, click, whoooooooooom, click, whooooooooom, pop, pop ...

“What in the world …”

As my wife, my brother-in-law and I made our way to the front of the house, I saw something my wife knows I have spent too much time reviewing in brochures and drooling over. Up to this point, the largest motorcycles I had seen in Brazil were 300cc Hondas, because the majority of people just don’t have the finances or use for large sport bikes or cruisers. Except this kid. I was as excited as a Bieber fan. In fact, part of the reason I got so pumped was that I have not been able to find a dealer remotely close to me back home who has this bike on the floor to even look at or take for a test ride. And being a retro classic fool that I am, I know all the pointless history of, say, a late ‘70s Hondamatic (thank you, MC). In addition to that education comes knowledge about a dirt track legend. You know the domination that Harley-Davidson was on dirt during the ‘70s & ‘80s? Remember the supremacy of the old Harley XR750? Well, in case you have cancelled your subscription to a classic motorcycle magazine or have given up on your love of all things two-wheeled, Harley-Davidson re-re-birthed this legend not long ago. And I must say, this bike is the offspring of some retro/modern motorcycle perfection. It has the looks of the “back-in-the-day” dirt track racer with the modern upgrades of a competitive sport-bike. Oh, it was sweet! It was like someone mixed Marilyn Monroe with Halle Berry to produce … well, you get the idea. Anyhow, the rider, Regis, was so jacked-up about meeting another motorcycle fanatic earlier in the day, that he swung by that night. So with a free loaner at my disposal, we made a dude’s moto date for the following morning.

 

This motorcycle adventure could not be complete without an innocent bystander. On that day, my brother-in-law took up the reins often held by my wife. Much to her satisfaction, she watched as we tore out of the driveway to our unknown destinations. What followed were some of the most incredible roads and scenes I have ever had a glimpse of. To make the current deal sweeter, ol’ Regis decided to allow me to ride the Harley. You have to remember, it’s a brand new American motorcycle, in Brazil they pay three to ten times for the same things we have. So, you know he’s got a little skin in the game; me, not so much. Anyway, it was my turn. I looked at Regis (who had four months of riding experience) and said, “Don’t even try to keep up … David! You riding with me? OK … Hold on (wink-wink).”

 

WHAM! WHOOOOOM! Click. WHOOOOOOM! Click. WHOOOOOM….

I thought I heard a faint voice behind me curse all kinds of obscenities and hostile threats. But that guy was too busy trying to hold on to the meager seat strap for dear life. Apart from that bother, the bike was incredible. The fuel injected thrust and v-twin power was like a shot of espresso Brazilian coffee. It turned the hair up on your neck and slightly wetted the pants of the co-pilot. I imagined as I leaned into blind turns, covered with banana trees, passing Mert Lawwill or Malcom Smith. David was enjoying every minute of it, too. He didn’t stop shouting until we reached the next stop sign when he hopped off the bike and joined Regis.

 

Needless to say, he didn’t really talk to me the rest of vacation (not until I scored a goal against my own team in a soccer game later that week, in which it was more like laughing than talking). But, to sum up the test ride, if I had the means, I think I’d be twisting the throttle to my own XR1200. Harley-Davidson did a tremendous job re-wrapping and re-working the classic dirt legend. It was a rush to have this rare opportunity to take it for a spin in Brazil. And to top that, we saw some incredible places, rode on some unbelievable roads, saw some interesting people, and did it in unusual style, dirt track style.

 

To conclude, I have made a short list for those of you out there who may one day go to Brazil.

First, you have to go to Rio de Janerio. Of course, you need to go to the beaches; mainly, Copacabana, Ipanema and Barra.

 

Rio is touristy, but if you ever find yourself there, don’t pass up Corcovado (Christ Statue) and Sugarloaf, no matter how long the wait. Also, everyone and their mother is going to try to sell you something, from a fake Rolex to grilled corn on the cob (yes, people go to the beach, play volleyball and then chomp away on a corn cob).

 

If you go to Brazil, you will undoubtedly see favelas, or slums, in every city you go. A true engineering miracle. You will get the best chance to see plenty of favelas in another famous city, Sao Paulo. Don’t be out sight-seeing alone if you go there. Like I said earlier, 19 million people, probably half of them come from the favelas.

 

If you think the big city of Sao Paulo isn’t your thing, go an hour down the road to Atibaia. It’s pretty indicative of Brazil, it’s simple and nice. If you’re looking for a little bit of everything within an hour of each other, go to Curitiba. It’s a place that’s growing at an incredible rate and is ripe for tourists. See the Jardim Botanico and all the other parks in the area. The city is beautiful.

 

Then ride a short way out to Lapa. This is where you will get a flash back to what life may have been like 40 or 50 years ago. Brick roads (or pada-lay-lay-pee-pee-dough), impressive architecture, and like all other Brazilian towns, a huge Catholic church. While you’re in Brazil, you have to try: pastel, coxinha (co-sheen-ya), kibe, acai and sugar cane. Oh, and make sure you eat at a Churrascaria.

And if you happen to stop in Atibaia and need a hair cut … I know just the guy to see.

  

Sometimes it can be hard to predict what will turn out to be a Good Idea. Does taking street machines on an unknown dirt road qualify as one? I found myself facing one of those decisive moments motorcycling on VA Highway 91 in mid-June.  After an exhilarating half-hour of watching Don Sprinkle’s BMW GS’s taillight gradually recede while I dodged the gravel patches residing in every third or fourth curve, I came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the highway next to Don and the “Pavement Ends” sign, staring at a gravel road climbing up over the next mountain. As I removed my helmet, Terry Shiels pulled up on the other side.  We had left Charlotte that morning, passed through Saltville, VA a few miles back, and our goal was Tazewell, and a visit to Burke’s Garden, reputed to be a stunningly beautiful pocket of rural tranquility in a very quiet region of western Virginia’s mountains. We now had to reach a consensus on whether to proceed on dirt, or turn around and find a paved route to Tazewell.  

  

The mountains’ beauty shrouded in the morning fog  

For Don, it was a no-brainer. His BMW GS boxer had all the options, including a dirt-road detection device.  He would have ridden gravel all the way from Charlotte had such a road been available.  Terry’s gaze told a different story.  He was astride his newly-acquired Triumph Sprint GT, a stunningly beautiful 600-lb sport tourer.  It had so much new on it, that he literally polished it every time we stopped, to ensure the freshness shone through. I could tell he wasn’t so enthusiastic.  My ’78 Moto Guzzi V50 was a pavement-only machine, but it was light enough to handle gravel, and old enough for that prospect not to bother me too much. 

 

Not all of Virgina's major highways are paved!  

If Terry had voiced his objection, I’d have joined him, and we would have gone in to Tazewell another way. Riding a street bike for long distances on unimproved roads is asking for a minor disaster.  Changing a flat on a Guzzi small block literally requires more tools than pulling a cylinder head. Terry’s Triumph was showroom-new and sunglasses-shiny.  The driver of the pickup truck Don flagged down, assured us that there was only 7 or so miles of gravel and that the road was in good shape.  His wife disagreed, but it was obvious Don didn’t want to listen to her.   

 

George Smith (left) and Don Sprinkle on the road to Burke's Garden.  

There’s a powerful unseen force among middle-aged motorcycle riders that sometimes causes a lot of trouble.  The layman’s term is “not looking like a ‘wuss.”  So up the gravel road we went.  And actually, it wasn’t so bad!  Recent afternoon thunderstorms meant we had little dust.  The road grade was fairly smooth, and the stones were small and well-packed.  We sure didn’t set any speed records, but progress was steady, until we rounded a left-hand hairpin and immediately pulled off for a view of the valley below and the first of many Kodak Moments.  There Don and I got to soak in a little of Terry’s wisdom, gleaned from his years as a videographer. Terry has a great eye for lighting and composition, and I tried the rest of the trip to incorporate his hints.  I’m generous enough to share my photography wisdom with him, which is “take a s***load of pictures, and throw most of them away.”  Going slowly lets you see lots of wildlife, too, in the form of woodchucks, ‘coons, and deer.  They’re certainly there during the rest of the ride, but if you’re watching apexes and potholes, the animals pretty much fade into the background.  Riding slowly on dirt is a whole new experience visually, as well as a challenge to one’s bike-handling skills. 

  

The shady dirt road offered spectacular  peeks of distant peaks.  

The rubbernecking we did on the rest of the ride to Tazewell pretty much undid Don’s AM chiropractic session.  I know why the old fighter pilots wore their silk scarves. The neck skin gets irritated from all the head-swinging.  The landscape was such that you really couldn’t help yourself, and after check-in at the motel, we all agreed that our decision to take the gravel road really was a Good Idea.  We three propped our feet up outside our rooms, enjoying cold adult beverages, and admired our rides.  Terry polished his. 

Don’s BMW GS is a versatile machine that seems to do anything asked of it, and do it well.  The off-road styling is more than just appearance.  It really does seem to have an affinity for unpaved roads, but in the hands of a good rider, can use its agility and broad torque to give sport bike riders fits on twisty pavement. 

Terry’s Triumph is a beauty, and it’s easy to see why one would be reluctant to put it at risk riding on loose gravel. It really is out of its element there. But it would likely be the first choice for a track day where rules required you to haul all your luggage around a course at racing speeds.   Oh, dark blue shows dust. 

The baby Guzzi is totally outclassed by those two.  Truth be told, it’s pretty much outclassed by just about any modern bike. But the engineering was solid, and the few that made their way to our shores have proven pretty much unburstable.  Pricier than Honda’s 750, and slower than Honda’s 400, Moto Guzzi had their work cut out for them trying to sell small block 500’s in the US.  But the few dozen lucky souls who own them today consider them to be classic overachievers.  Out of its league, but full of enthusiasm, it’s like a third-string bench warmer sent into a blowout game’s waning seconds. The small Guzzi performs with such joy and brio, it’s easy for the rider to forgive its shortcomings.  It’s satisfying to simply enjoy watching it play.  If an inanimate object can have joie de vivre, it’s there in spades in the Goose! 

Tuesday morning provided us with a real change. Since Charlotte had experienced seventy-leven days in a row of high 90-degree weather, we just had to get our pictures taken in front of the bank’s Time and Temp display. Timing the shutter just right got a smiling rider with a 55-degree reading on the sign in the background.  Next on the list during breakfast was to e-mail the pics to everyone in the heat back home. 

 

Terry Shiels takes a photo of Don on cooler-than-expected morning.  

After breakfast, Terry and I stopped at an old cemetery in downtown Tazewell for some photos of the Confederate-era graves.  The shots you can get on camera phones can be amazing, but I kept complaining that I needed a different lens or other equipment to get a certain shot.  Leave it to a professional like Terry to point out the obvious. “It’s all we have, and we just have to work with it.”  That’s why he makes a living in visual arts. 

 

The cemetery in downtown Tazewell.  

The fog lifted and the temp crept up to comfortable levels as we made the 10-mile trip to Burke’s Garden.  Entering from the north, an exhilarating road cuts through the mountain and suddenly you slow down to find yourself in an immense serving of farm stew in a bowl made of mountain-ridge. Burke’s was originally a mountain underlaid with sedimentary rock.  Over the eons, the rock in the middle collapsed, leaving the mountain in the form of a ring to surround the crater-like valley. It’s described as the highest valley in Virginia at roughly 3000 feet.  Interestingly, this location was George Vanderbilt’s first choice to build Biltmore House, America’s largest private residence, but he couldn’t convince a single landowner in the valley to sell, so Biltmore ended up being built in Asheville. 

 

Just inside the north entrance to Burke's Garden.  

Riding the lane-and-a-half wide perimeter road, it’s easy to see the attraction.  George had excellent taste and the valley’s residents were smart enough to ignore his money and hang on to what they knew was a Good Thing.  At the General Store, the owner told us that we have one advantage over Vanderbilt.  For the first time in recent memory, some Garden property was actually for sale, probably still for Vanderbilt-sized money.  I asked her where the best photo ops were in the Garden, and she candidly answered “All of it.” 

 Leaving the store, we rode clockwise for maybe a half-mile before the gloves came off and the camera came out. When we saw llamas and camels at a farm another half-mile down the road, the gloves came off permanently and I decided just to leave them in the tank-bag.   

 

 

Camels in Burke's Garden, Va. 

Any words to describe Burke’s Garden are likely to be inadequate.  The dictionary gives us “bucolic” and “pastoral.”  Suffice it to say, a visit should be on your bucket list. There’s no lodging. There’s one gas pump that is so old the hand-written notice affixed advises the purchaser that gas actually costs TWICE what’s on the pump. No place to eat.  Many of the valley’s vehicles probably never leave the Garden because they have no tags.  This isolation can’t help but make you feel you’ve somehow stepped back in time, trapped in a period of history where everyone was on a party line telephone, and neighbors spanked each other’s kids.  In a nod to modernity, one of the houses did have a window-unit air conditioner.  

 

 

 

 

 

 Burke's Garden is one spectacular photo-op after another.  

After our delightful ride the day before, we didn’t have as much trepidation about exiting on the gravel road to the south. Don said it was a little longer and crossed two ridges as well as the Appalachian Trail on the way out.  It did start out pretty steep and then got rougher and looser the farther we got in.  Unlike the day before, ruts sometimes crossed the road and occasionally the rocks that mountain bikers call “baby heads” were in the way. Don was in his element.  I was nervous, but coping.  Terry was wishing for a miraculous loss of 200 pounds of bike weight, and a way to peer through his fairing to help dodge the obstacles.  I really was sympathetic as even a very low speed tumble on a bike like his could cost hundreds of dollars while knocking off a good bit of the “new.”  The color finally returned to his face when we hit pavement 14 miles later.  

 

A bike like Terry's Triumph can be a real hand-full on a dirt road.  

One more stop to get some “tank bag condiments,” sauces, jellies, etc., that I can’t get at home. Terry polished the Triumph. Some more twisty parts coming down the mountain into Wytheville, VA and again into Elkin, NC.   Terry used to own a cruiser and had replaced it with the Sprint.  Riding the higher-performance Triumph, he was developing a new set of skills to cope with the better bike and the mountain roads, both paved and unimproved.  One of this ride’s appeals was watching his confidence and skills improve constantly.  The other was being able to watch Don’s smooth, effortless GS riding.  He makes it look so easy.  I’m sure he scares himself from time to time, but you’d never know it! 

 Droning home on I77 South near Lake Norman, brake lights ahead lit up.  Our delay was brief, but the northbound lanes, where the accident had occurred, were backed up for miles.  Don looked over, flipped up his visor and shouted “Welcome Home!  Let’s do it again!”   

Of course, Don. In a heartbeat! -- George Smith