It's 6:00 a.m. when I awaken in my room at the River Inn in Redding, California, the sun streaking through a gap in the drapes. It's early summer and the city is sleeping off the pyrotechnic display and festivities of last night's Fourth of July celebration. But I am clear-headed and ready to address the morning. Redding, situated at the top of the Sacramento Valley, is the perfect gateway to the high country of Northern California, and to a ride that promises to be all the more diverse and mesmerizing due to the dramatic changes in altitude and the vistas offered by the regal Cascade Range.

According to the road signs, we're closing in on Natural Bridge, Virginia. Normally, it's a good thing to be nearing the night's comfort zone, especially after nine hours of riding on a hot summer day. But this evening is different. Kathy and I are at one with the nimble Honda 599 howling away beneath us, traffic on Route 130 is light, the James River is shimmering through the trees, and the road is unrolling in a buffet of smooth, sinuous curves that simply insist that we stay on the gas and keep eating.

Pennsylvania's historic Oil Heritage Region and its border on lovely Lake Erie beckon us northward from central Ohio for a three-day motorcycle tour.

"The traffic rules in Italy aren't so much rules as suggestions," our tour guide says at our pre-ride briefing. "You can pass cars anywhere, just do so safely. Drivers here don't care; in fact, they expect it of you." Despite my lingering haziness, brought on by a sleepless overnight flight, his inspiring words sliced through, ringing loud and clear. Giving Kathy a wink, I could tell by her expression that she had already read my mind.

With the crossing by canoe of the rocky waters of the Mamoré River, we leave the tropical north of Bolivia and resume our two-wheel journey, heading north into a new and fascinating world called Brazil. A five-hour ride on intensely hot pavement takes us through lush fields to the town of Porto Velho in the Amazon Basin, but we are still a long way from seeing the real Amazon River.

As the remaining miles of Arizona's claim to Highway 191 dwindle to single digits, we look back on all we've seen. From its cool, high-mountain passes to sweltering, wind-blasted deserts, the Copper State has presented some of the most imposing scenery we've ever encountered in all our travels. A little smile of anticipation and curiosity curls my lips as we breeze past the sign welcoming us to Utah.

Stand on a New York City subway platform in the summer and you'll know how Dante felt at the gates of Hell. Down there, beneath the melting tarmac, the air is so thick with heat it can be cut with a plastic knife. The subway cars are air-conditioned, but the platforms aren't, and when the moist air released from the cars hits the tubes and the platforms it steams the creases out of your finely pressed work clothes and burrows into the sweaty marrow of your being.

That is the question facing potential buyers interested in the 2006 edition of Yamaha's exceedingly popular FJR1300. Laurel-resting certainly wasn't on the year's agenda over at Big Blue. And topping the list of cool refinements on the sport-touring world's top dog is the novel option of escaping the clutches of the clutch.

When you're caught up in this whole motorcycle touring business, it's really easy to get spoiled. After all, only a fortunate few are given the first crack at riding the latest models of such fine purpose-built mounts as the Gold Wing, Ultra Classic, Concourse, and Vulcan Nomad to name but four. That's great, and we truly enjoy having access to all of these rides - but where is it etched in stone that only the big boys are allowed to play in the street?

As I sweep through the delicious medley of flowing curves that climb to Fairfield Ski Resort just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, I run through my mental checklist. Power delivery: smooth; brakes: smooth with a nice bite; gearshift: crisp, yet smooth; clutch: light and smooth…damn it - my critique of BMW's new K1200GT is starting to sound like a beer commercial!

I can still remember opening my copy of Motor Cycle News and seeing BSA's announcement of their motorcycle range for 1966. I was fifteen, motorcycle crazy and a big fan of motocross, which was then called 'scrambles.' Jeff Smith had just won his second successive world championship on the 440cc BSA Victor, and to cash in on its investment, BSA introduced a road-going version of the Victor for 1966. It was chunky, aggressive and had a shiny, yellow-painted alloy gas tank. I wanted one so badly I could scream.