The Final Push

Day 7:

The rain still hung in the air—light now, but steady. I hit the road at 0608, skipping the night-before fuel stop. It was crisp. I was back in full leathers and Gore-Tex. As long as I kept moving, I was fine.

The last of the storm gave way to open skies, though the temp hovered around 48 degrees. First stop of the day, and already I’m seeing familiar faces—people I met along the way. Now, when someone’s pulled over, we slow and give the high sign before passing. It’s unspoken, but understood. It's what you'd want if you needed help.

I’m continually impressed by the people I’m running into—riders from Iowa, Arizona, Washington State, Argentina, France, and of course, Canada. But I’m only one of three Americans left in this stretch. One of just two Harleys. The other? A 2024 Softail, ridden solo by a young woman—road warrior from Argentina, I think. The rest are Pan America-style adventure bikes… and they shine out here.

I rode like this all the way to the Yukon. It still had surprises left. The skies cracked open, and the land lit up. As I rolled into Goal #3—Destruction Bay—I smiled. I love this place.

This time, it was green. One gas station, also a restaurant, serving hot anything. I pulled in, shivering when I stopped. Fueled up and moved to parking. Walked inside and sat down. That was the best hot tea and soup of my life. A chatty couple from Arizona sat nearby—on the road 16 days. Another group from Argentina pushing on from Key West. All of us Fairbanks-bound. We trickled out, and I was first to crack the throttle.

About 30 miles down the road, I heard a whistle from the bike. I’d noticed it earlier at the last gas stop, but now it was back. My heart sank. I pulled over. Something I’d never heard before. Turned out to be the NQP crank breatherI designed—plugged with moisture. I fast-drained it, cleaned the steel wool. Problem solved. Just then, Argentina passed, honked, and waved. Back on the road.

Last time I was here it was snow, ice, and misery. This time? It was about to become the hardest ride of my life. A straight-up endurance course.

I don’t think I can articulate just how brutal this road is for a bike like mine. Frost heaves hidden in the shadows, bottoming out the front suspension. I got bucked off the seat several times. I started reading the pavement like a survival guide—color shifts, patches, potholes, gravel—for miles. I slowed. Focused. Music in my helmet. Stay safe. Just stay safe.

Final gas stop in Canada—Beaver Creek. The station was just a shack with “1202” above the door. I remembered it from last time. Gas and go. I passed the Canada Post and entered the last 30-mile stretch before the border.

And then ithappened.

I pulled up to the U.S. Border Patrol agent. He looked at me and said:

“Welcome home.”

And for the first time in this portion of my new life—that was absolutely, undeniably true.

The road after that? Spectacular.
Smooth, fresh pavement. The temperature rose to 70°F. The ride became effortless—but I stayed alert. I rolled into Tok after nearly 9 hours in the saddle, still with 3 more to go.

Forest fires loomed ahead, and trucks moved in the smoke. But this is Alaska. This is home.

Ran into one of the groups again—talked a while. A needed break.

The last 3 hours flew by. On a motorcycle this was the Longest day. Longest ride. Longest test.
Not just of this trip—in my life.

But I made it.

3,511 miles.
5 states. 2 provinces.
Solo.

And as I sat there, engine humming, hair in the wind, sun starting to dip—I reflected on the significance of what just happened.

Again, I was struck by the ironies of my life.
What a machine.
What a ride.
What an adventure.

And yes—
It was just as epic as I had imagined.