It's one of the ironies of motorcycling — you sit there on the bike, the motor doing all of the hard work, and you get hungry. Really hungry. It's understandable on a bicycle, your legs pumping like Lance Armstrong and your furiously beating heart making you regret that last piece of pie. But on a motorcycle, what's the excuse for daydreaming of burgers and fries? Even more ironic is the fact that when you finally sit down to chow, there's a good chance that your food has traveled farther than you. The beef is from Australia, the lettuce from South America, and the potato from Idaho. OK, maybe you traveled farther than the potato.

From the weathered mountaintops of the Appalachians to the bountiful sea, stories of a native people and a young democracy are tucked away in the quiet villages, small towns and country roads of New England.

The curves up the mountain are so tight that you are just peripherally aware of the rock alternating with the forested ravine, first left, then right; you're going so fast, you strain not to bang into the one or go sliding down the other. Your riding companion's taillight appears, then disappears; you focus, focus, as you continue the climb. But there is something about an ascent. As you crest the rise, the land falls away beneath you. Suddenly, the expanse opens up ahead, and you can see all the way to the distant line where it meets the sky. You feel the air inside your belly pushing out at your ribs, as you try to catch your breath and take in the vastness of what nature has laid at your feet. And you wonder if your wheels are still touching the ground.

In the summer, Cape Cod becomes the crown jewel of eastern Massachusetts. While the Berkshires in the western half of the Bay State lure vacationers and weekenders with its rolling hills and famed classical music performances, the siren song of the beaches and other shoreline attractions of the Cape prove difficult to resist, with three-hour-long, Friday night bottlenecks at the Bourne and Sagamore Bridges attesting to its coastal appeal.

Adventure is going into the unknown. Even on familiar roads, I can never anticipate what will be seen or experienced. Nor can I predict how it will all end. As my bike dove into an impossibly green canyon, these thoughts arose superimposed on beautiful images of the landscape and analysis of the asphalt ribbon. But if these thoughts were premonitions, I certainly didn't heed them.