What You Really Learn on a Solo Tour

Touring. It’s part of the life. If you ride a big-ass bike and never leave your zip code, then what the hell are you doing? Go buy a golf cart.

I’ve logged a lot of long-distance miles over the years — sometimes with my crew, sometimes with family, and other times just me and the road. This recent one was solo. No chase truck. No buddies. No plan B. Just me, the bike, and 2,454 miles of everything from full-send sweepers to gas station bathrooms that smelled like dead dreams. Pittsburgh to Delray Beach and back again with points in between.

Here’s what came out the other side.

Let’s Kill the Myth Right Now

I didn’t find the meaning of life.

Didn’t weep under a sunset.

Didn’t have some spiritual breakthrough where I learned that deep down, people are good.

That’s Netflix nonsense.

The first 1,117 miles were a certified Iron Butt Saddlesore 1000. That’s not a vision quest — that’s a grind. Straight focus. Zero distractions. You ride. You fuel. You go again.

The rest of the tour mixed highways, mountain roads, and a few twisty bastards that made me question my life choices. Some stretches slapped. Some sucked. That’s how it goes when you run it solo. No filters. No fluff. Just you and the truth.

Tight Twisties Can Get Bent

Alright. Here’s something I’ve been avoiding for years: I don’t love tight technical roads.

I can ride the hell out of them — I’ve trained for that. But let’s be real: wrestling a 800-pound bagger in 2nd gear for 30 miles straight isn’t fun. It’s a gym session in leather.

I’m not talking about a couple sharp corners tossed into a good route. I’m talking about those overhyped, hairpin-happy goat paths that some riders pretend are god’s gift to motorcycling.

Give me big sweepers with real apexes. Corners where you can hammer in at 90, drop the shoulder, and roll throttle out past 100. That’s ripping. That’s what baggers were built to do — stretch out and fly. The ultra-tight stuff? That’s not joy. That’s ego reps.

I think I’ve always known it. But this tour didn’t just confirm it — it gave me zero fucks about saying it out loud. Tight twisties ain’t my thing.

The Music Problem No One Talks About

Every damn tour, I think I’ve cracked the code: I build a 12-hour playlist. Metal. Hardcore. Angry rap. Stuff that fuels the fire.

And by day three, every song feels like background noise in a CIA black site.

I ride with intensity. I need tracks that hit. But I don’t like everything in those genres — I’m picky. So when the good songs start repeating, it turns from hype to torture real quick.

You can’t fix it. You can only endure it. That’s the price of needing a soundtrack that slaps as hard as your throttle hand.

Cover Your Damn Brake

Some guys say you don’t need to cover the brake on long highway runs. Those guys are wrong.

Yes, it’ll wear your hand out. But it’ll keep your ass out of an ambulance.

More than once on this trip, I was rolling at 85 and traffic just died. No warning. Brake lights. Total stop. One time I nearly got sandwiched in a multi-car pileup that went from nothing to oh-shit in seconds.

Thanks to muscle memory, I was already on the front brake. ABS kicked in. Bike stayed upright. I kept moving.

Cover your brake. Always. Even when you think you don’t need to. Especially then.

The Red Dot of Doom

If you’ve never seen the bright red warning light on your dash, count your blessings.

If you have — you know. That thing is a heart attack with LEDs.

Mid-ride, it flashes on and your brain hits DEFCON 1: Is my engine frying? Am I about to grenade this motor? Am I about to become roadside barbecue?

Turns out mine was just the tire pressure monitoring system throwing a tantrum. Ever since I swapped wheels, it’s been flaky. Readings go wonky. Pressure’s fine. Bike’s fine. The red dot just likes to keep me humble.

So if you see it and nothing feels wrong — breathe. Check your info screen. Don’t spiral.

Yes, You’re Gonna Strip in a Gas Station Bathroom

You know the saying: if your gear’s right, you can ride all day. If it’s wrong, every mile is a curse.

Leaving Boone, NC, I aimed for The Snake and Back of the Dragon. Problem was, the mountain air was ice cold and didn’t plan on warming up. I could gut it out and freeze my nuts off… or I could pull into a sketchy gas station and layer up in a bathroom that smelled like mop water and regret.

I chose warmth. And it was the right call.

Later, when the sun kicked into high gear? Same deal. Gas station stop. Yanked the base layer off. Sweat dried. Mind cleared. Ride resumed.

Gross floors be damned — comfort equals control. Stay dialed in or get distracted. Your choice.

Not Epiphanies. Just Moments That Hit Hard.

I didn’t find peace. But I did find something.

At mile 850 of the Saddlesore, I hit this huge rainbow stretching over the road. Outta nowhere. And instantly, I thought of my biological dad. He was proud as hell of my riding. Always was.

After he died, I used to feel like he was riding 2UP with me. That faded over time. But in that moment, riding into that rainbow at high speed, it felt like he was back. Not forever. Just long enough to throw me a nod and tell me to finish strong.

Touring doesn’t always change your life. But it gives you moments. And sometimes that’s enough.

Like the time a herd of bison crossed the road three feet in front of me in South Dakota. No lesson. Just a frozen moment that’s etched in forever.

Final Thought

You don’t tour for enlightenment. You tour to test your grit. To strip it all down until it’s just you, the bike, and whatever’s waiting around the next blind curve.

You ride through fatigue. Through frustration. Through your own head. And if you’re lucky, you come back with something that sticks.

A story. A scar. A moment.

So pack light. Rip hard. And if you’re gonna chase anything… make it worth the fuel.

— Bagger Shawn

Founder, Steel Rippers