Jason Giacchino realized in his influential teen years that he lacked the speed the become a professional racer, the courage to become a freestyle MXer, or the facial hair to fit in at the good biker bars. However, it was immediately apparent that his passion for motorcycles couldn't be suppressed. He is considered by many a writer who rides but is quick to correct this misconception; he is a rider who writes.

His work has been seen in Off The Pegs ATV features and Word On The Street columns in Full Throttle magazine, and he is the author of the popular Behind The Bars editorial known among motocross circles. As a long-time fan of MCUSA, Jason is excited to share his Northeastern adventures with our riding community in a monthly report called "Back Road Ramblings."

Spring Riding

It is often said that warm days in the Northeast during mid April are to be considered a gift rather than an expectation. Even with such logic in mind, it is easy to quickly get spoiled after a few consecutive sunny afternoons of clear bright blue skies. Even the trees themselves are duped by the temporary warmth as their limbs display budding leaves of red fuzz high above the wild chives that sprout in spikey clusters in my backyard. Vines along the fence again continue their eternal pilgrimage skyward. Conditions were perfect as only a rider with intent to travel can fully understand.

Having carefully considered the notion of sticking a folded North Eastern United States road atlas into my backpack, I stepped out into the late morning breeze deciding that my route was to be as random as Mother Nature herself. My area, as fortune has it, is ripe of interesting destinations and locales with enough potential to draw riders in tour from far and wide. I am blessed with having to make decisions as to whether my daily rides should take me deep into the twisting mountain roads of the Alleghenies where time itself becomes distorted among the shadowy, forest lined desolate passes or through the hustle and congestion of navigating through the city of Buffalo where the majesty of taking in the misty roar of Niagara Falls awaits. Perhaps it is the charm of having such ideal destinations that, in essence, offsets the rugged climate and resulting time spent out of the saddle each year.

A gentle breeze rippled across the grass before nibbling through my riding jacket, a subtle reminder that it was yet early in the riding season and that days like these truly are gifts to be savored. The mountains are better suited to the late summer, early fall climate, when the last of the winter road salt has been long since washed away by the rain and the trees are full with hues of red and orange. Spring air is sweetened by an earthy, damp leaves aroma that I can't help but associate with clear cold water. It is a period of renewal, a time when the colorless blanket of ice is pushed back to reveal the greens and browns of life. With the Eastern shores of Lake Erie literally rising up into cliffs just beyond my quiet block, my destination had already been partially chosen as I fired up my Suzuki GS500F although the actual roads themselves were yet a mystery to me. I would carry no backpack this time, if even only symbolically shedding the few restrictions a day like today would allow. Indeed this was to be a local tour, a trip in which the beauty of one's own backyard isn't forsaken to delusions of grandeur in far off locales.

As is my tradition, I intended to avoid as many highways and as much Interstate travel as possible, favoring the lazy pace and blurring scenery of the secondary roads. My journey led me to a winding road appropriately named Old Lake Shore, which closely hugs the jagged Lake Erie shore-line from atop the towering pale cliff faces created by centuries of erosion. As the road hooked even closer to the banks and the choppy gray waters below, I passed into a zone of chilling air that is as vivid to a motorcyclist as smacking into a wall. Cold Canadian air glanced across the open void of water and steadily pushed at my left side fairing. The view of the water was stunning as often as the gaps in the trees allowed, the air smelled of the cool freshness that dish-soap and deodorant manufactures lust after.

I wound down as the road grew increasingly twisty, studying the rust colored guard-rail that lined the left side, a wall of safety that protected motorists from, well another wall of safety. I pulled to the shoulder and approached the dual guard rails and was immediately aware of their purpose. Old Lake Shore road it turns out is actually the new Old Lake Shore Road as the original was clearly lost to the wrath of the rhythmic waves far below, pounding the shore with a gentle fist, effective only through the years that pass. I found myself wondering how long before the new Old Lake Shore would suffer the same fate of erosion, tumbling down the cliffs, before beginning the slow transformation into sand.

My attention was captured by a flock of noisy seagulls who sailed above the water without flapping their wings. There was a storm far off on the horizon that appeared to be approaching with the Canadian wind. Certainly this day was to soon retire into the realm of memory and the reality of Mother Nature's bi-polar hold on the area again be made clear. I didn't need to hurry though, as I really wasn't far from home. I stood another moment longer near the rail concluding that days considered gifts are good for forcing each of us into making the most of every second. 


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