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North to Alaska

© Brian Salisbury

I looked into my rearview mirror and saw the red flashing lights rapidly approaching. The patrol car pulled up close behind and let loose with a quick squall from its siren. Any hope that the trooper was aiming for another driver quickly dissipated. I rolled my motorcycle slowly to a stop on the highway’s gravel shoulder, turned off the engine and planted the kickstand on a solid patch of earth.

Getting pulled over by the police usually wrenches my stomach, but on this occasion I felt a mixture of curiosity and fatalism.

I was traveling east along Route 1 in Manitoba, Canada, heading toward the city of Brandon about 50 miles away. I hadn’t been speeding or driving recklessly, so I had nothing to fear in the way of moving violations. However, after everything else that had happened during this long journey, it seemed inevitable that I should get pulled over for something.

Perhaps my New Jersey license plates made me stand out from the other vehicles. Also, this was 1968; long distance riders with heavily laden motorcycles usually attracted attention.

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer who stepped from the patrol car could have come directly from central casting in Hollywood. He wore the Mounties’ traditional flat-brimmed hat and high boots. A wide leather belt holding a holstered sidearm was buckled over a well-tailored, red-trimmed tunic. Of course he was tall.

While he walked purposefully toward me, I reached into my leather coat for my wallet then dug out my license and registration.

“How are you doing,” he asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“Where are you headed?”

“To Brandon then eventually back to New Jersey.”

“Where are you coming from?”

“Alaska.”

“Looks like it.” With that, he headed back to the patrol car with my license and registration in his hand. Then, inside the car, I saw him speaking into the two-way radio. I cooled my heels.

Why go to Alaska?

I’d been on the road for more than six weeks. What started out as the trip of a lifetime had turned into the trip that refused to let me go home.

There’s a saying among motorcycle riders that states: “The ride is the reason.” The message being, you don’t really need a specific destination or rationale to hop onto your motorcycle and take a trip. However, when I decided to go to Alaska, I realized I needed a logical explanation to squelch the question: “Why the hell do you want to ride 10,000 miles on a motorcycle from New Jersey to Alaska and back?”

The copyright of the article North to Alaska in Motorcycles is owned by Brian Salisbury. Permission to republish North to Alaska in print or online must be granted by the author in writing.