Bonneville Salt Flats, September 1972. Matt, 21, Strider, 13k.

April, 1972; Wow, new motorcycle, I can go anywhere! And proceeded to do pretty much just that. I was stationed at Ft. Carson, living on base and every weekend exploring this new part of the world. Prior to going overseas, the farthest East I had been was Salt Lake City, so this was a lot of new and strange territory to me.

I quickly achieved the first 600 miles of break-in, and showed up at the very new BMW of Colorado Springs for the initial service (back then, it was a freebie). Doc Baum had bought the franchise from the Suzuki dealer next door and with K.D. Brooks as main wrench, had just opened. They raved on me a little for going to Denver to buy the bike, I explained the blue 750 and black 600 business and what the Suzuki salesman told me and they understood. NOW I know about switching tanks, fenders and bodywork. They did excellent work and explained a lot of the day to day stuff any new BMW owner needs to know.

The /5 owner's manual is virtually a shop manual (especially compared to today's' offerings) and I, with a background of VW maintenance, learned the basics of tune -ups and oil changes on my own. No Airheads or even BMWMOA back then.

What with a lady friend in Tucson, another in Missoula, Montana and a lot of friends and family in Los Angeles, the miles piled on as I counted down the months until I was out of the Green Machine. Did my first 1000 in 1 (1250 in 1, actually) from Colorado Springs to Los Angeles. Started out 11 am Christmas Day in Colorado, rolled into LA 11 am the next day (the nuttiness of youth!). Lots of just getting on the bike and exploring the Rockies. Even the plains of the Midwest were (and still are) fascinating to this LA city boy. Several times, I would load up Strider for a two or three-day trip, grab a handful of dry grass, throw it in the air and, which ever direction it blew, that was my direction of travel.

Being the squirrelly 'Nam vet that I was, I really didn't meet, or care to meet, many folks here in town. Any free time, I was outta there. As the end of my enlistment neared, I did encounter, and volunteer for, the Terros Hotline; a drug and crisis hotline. That was another life changing event along this journey; the people I worked with on the phones, back in the early '70s, are still among my best and frequently seen friends. I meet once a week, and have for the last 14 years, with six fellows; four of them are old hotliners, the other two are married to old hotliners. Yep, that was an intense time. And now, five of those six gents are riding old airheads; two /5's, two /6's and one /7.

Between April '72 and May of '73, I traveled 29,000 miles on weekends and leaves. As my ETS of May 23 approached, I had K.D. do the last service anyone else would do to Strider; sold or gave away just about everything that wasn't going with me and prepared for the Long Trip. May 25th saw me load up the bike, stick close to $2,000 dollars in travelers checks in my pocket and take off.

What a feeling! Out of the Army, warm Spring weather, a nicely running /5, places to go, people to see, plenty of money and even more time. Very, very few limits. First stop, a visit with Mary, in Tucson. Day 2 of the Long Trip; a collision with a cow, outside of Silver City, New Mexico. A small herd, alongside the road, decided to run with me; one cut across the road and down I went. No damage to the cow; smashed headlight and lacerations to me (my new bike!). Limped into Tucson the next day, found the BMW shop and affected repairs and spent a few days hanging out with the well-tanned U of A students. On to LA, a few days with the parents and friends, then, off on the first leg of the Long Trip: Alaska.

All of June and most of July were spent slowly riding up the West Coast to Seattle, the Jasper/Banff region and up through British Columbia and Yukon Territory. My grand father had operated a hardware store in Dawson City, during the Alaska Goldrush and I wanted to pay my respects to the falling down log structure. Found my great grandfather's grave in an overgrown cemetery outside of Dawson City. This was also the scene of the first, but far from last, breakdown. On a VERY lonely road, between Dawson City and Fairbanks; the rubbing block of the points wore down to where the points no longer opened. 11:30 at night, still quite light out (we're not far South of the Arctic Circle). That's when I got to discover how inadequate the BMW supplied all-metal tool kit screwdriver is. It's still residing in the forest alongside that road where I threw it, I'm quite sure. After a long time, I figured out I could beat the points with a steel rod and a rock, bending them enough so they were opening again. Fired right up! Next day, I arrived in Fairbanks and purchased a proper screwdriver at Sears.

I spent a couple of weeks hanging around Anchorage, this was the summer of '73, the Alaska Pipeline was on hold and there were all sorts of interesting characters and boomers up there waiting for things to break loose. A fair number of them were vets like myself, heading off into the bush for some real isolation. There was a hotline in Anchorage that allowed folks to pitch tents in their yard, creating a scene not unlike a rally. Every evening, people would gather around a huge cable-drum table in the main room. The conversation never stopped. Hats were regularly passed for more food, coffee and beer. The days started to blur into one another. Time to head South, I felt. I had ridden up the Al-Can highway, 1,300 miles of hard packed dirt and a fair mount of mud. Other than the points problem, the only other loss was one sub frame bolt disappearing. Oh, yeah, I'd also set Strider on fire, thanks to a canvas saddlebag sagging down and resting on a muffler. It was a little exciting to come out of the gas station men's room and see the tire, fender, seat and saddle bag in flames. Fortunately, there was a bucket of water for cleaning windshields right there so it was quickly extinguished. We are starting to look a little road weary by now.

Having ridden all the way up, I decided to take the ferry back down to Prince Rupert, about half way down British Columbia. Good choice, as I figured, the costs were about the same and the wear and tear, a lot less. Three days and nights of sleeping on the deck with backpackers and one other BMW rider, watching the coast slide by. Once back on land, I rolled south, back to Los Angeles to rest, and prepare for the next leg of the Long Trip, a tour of the Midwest. After that would be the final leg, along what later would be the Iron Butt route: the perimeter of the US

This is turning into quite the narrative, I'm afraid, should have done this last winter. I'll get to the rest of the Long Trip and beyond, soon.

To be continued... Matt Parkhouse