With the motorcycle secured, it was time to address the shipping situation. On this end, the international options are few and far between. It boiled down to a handful of companies that can fly a motorcycle over to Europe, and the cost is not particularly easy to digest. However, if you want to ship the bike, it can certainly be done. I had my pick of airports—Atlanta, Chicago, New York’s JFK, and Montreal, based on the companies that I contacted. While Atlanta would have been the closest (and warmest in March), I also had to consider the destination airport. Depending on the shipper and the airline it contracts with, you can be restricted to major cities within one country (Lufthansa pretty much flies only to Germany), or you can have it delivered to any major airport in Europe. So, because Germany would still put me about 10 hours from the destination, I decided to use Berklay Cargo, out of New York City. They were the only shipping company who would fly the bike anywhere in Europe that I wanted.

For me, of course, the only problem was getting the bike to New York City. The Berklay folks offered to pick-up the bike, haul it to JFK, and ship it on from there. But this would have added an additional 2 weeks. So, I decided that 45F degrees in early April was no longer an inconvenience, but rather an adventure to be enjoyed. Well, sort of…

On April 5, with my wife in the chase vehicle, I took off for New York City. I had checked the weather, and it was going to be low 40s, maybe a few spots along the way in the 50s. With layers upon layers of warm clothing, I figured that the 15-hour trip would be manageable. As luck would have it, the first day it turned out to be sunny. Crossing into West Virginia brought a smile to my face, as I looked forward to the nice sweepers on both I-64 E and I-79 N. And, indeed, the state proved to be a delight, even though I spent all the time on freeways—not the most intriguing part of motorcycling.














Early afternoon brought Maryland and another few stretches of pleasant slab on I-68 E.











By late afternoon and into early evening, we reached Pennsylvania. We stopped in Harrisburg for the night, and enjoyed a pleasant dinner and a warm bed.













Next morning we rose bright and early at 7 a.m., only to look out the window and see…well, of course, SNOW!!! My thought was, “Great! I need a snowmobile to get to NYC.” A prompt check of the weather channel and local news and it was evident we were not going anywhere in a hurry—it was 31F. So, almost relieved I jumped back in bed and took a two-hour morning nap. By 9:30 a.m., after a shower and breakfast, the sun was shining, the roads were clearing up, and even though still quite chilly, it was bearable to ride.

We left Harrisburg at 10 a.m. and took I-78 E towards New Jersey. About an hour into the ride, it was obvious that the snow storm that had hit Harrisburg earlier that morning, was making its way eastward toward NYC. We were simply following in its footsteps.


Due to the cold temps, I had to stop every hour, get in the car for a few minutes and crank the heater on high to defrost my fingers. The rest of my body felt quite comfortable, but the insulated gloves were not quite up to the low temperatures.

When we arrived in New Jersey, the sun was still shining. So, I thought—“OK, this is not too bad; it’s cold, but I can handle the ride as long as the sun’s up. And it looks as though, we may have escaped the snow storm.” Boy, was I ever optimistic.


About 30 miles outside of Newark, the skies turned grey and ominous and, sure enough, it started snowing. This was not exactly my idea of fun. At this point, the temps dropped and as I was keeping pace with traffic, I started questioning my sanity and the very reason for this trip. “Would the extra $500 been worth shipping it? Yeah, but it would have cost me an additional 2 weeks. And of course, brave road warrior, don’t forget about the adventure—this is supposed to be adventurous, a story for the grand-kids. Nice, but I don’t even have children, let alone grand-children, and who cares about their stories—I can’t feel my fingers!!!”

Newark was bleak, milky, cold and foggy. I imagined it to be the exact image of London during Charles Dickens’s time. Or, why not, Newark during our times…steel bridges, narrow lanes, snow… and an idiot on a motorcycle. I did catch a few glances from hurried drivers—clearly wondering what was this fool doing on a two-wheeled contraption in this weather. And the snow kept coming. I was glad for the traffic for it kept the road surface wet and prevented the snow from sticking. By time we reached Holland Tunnel, the snow was steady.

The tunnel was a pleasant experience, with the temperature underground significantly warmer. I thought, “Wow, this is great, I get a few moments of warm air down here.” In the stream of traffic I even had time to crack a smile. The speed limit in the tunnel is 35 mph. But of course, this being New York, the flow of traffic was moving 55 mph or better.

And then I emerged into Manhattan. What fun! I had been to NYC before, but mainly during the summer or the fall. This was a completely different experience—the motorcycle, the snow, the crazy traffic. For a few brief moments I tried to absorb it all. But, the pace of traffic, the taxis and all the pedestrians brought me back to the immediacy of the situation—we need to find the bridge into Brooklyn so we can reach JFK.

After crossing the Manhattan Bridge, we merged with I-280 and the madness of trucks, buses, cabs, and limos, all trying to get somewhere. From there, the ride to Berklay Cargo’s shipping warehouse was rather eventful and not lacking in heart-stopping moments. Slick roads, high speed, traffic and lots of braking, as any motorcyclist can imagine, make for quite a ride. Nonetheless, by two o’clock we arrived. I cleaned the bike and prepped it for shipping—disconnect the battery cables and tape them, ensure there’s less than a quarter of gas in the tank and sign all the paperwork that the folks at Berklay had gotten ready. I was tired and worn-out, but looking back, it was certainly a trip to remember. The following few days in Vermont were certainly pleasant.

At this point, my wife and I were ready to follow our bike and cross the Atlantic.

--BGR