The planned trip was to OC, MD for couple days in the sun with my family culminating with the eclipse. Having done a few trips to OC, I knew I wanted to avoid the usual beach traffic on DE1 and 113. Firstly, book your ride in advance cause the spots sell out quick. I grabbed my ticket the night before ($39 for the bike and myself) since the slots were very limited for vehicles. I got the last ticket on the 10AM boat. After that it was all sold out till 3:30PM and later.

I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect morning to ride to Cape May. No traffic, blue skies, and the perfect temps. They ask you arrive at least a half hour early. True to my form, I was an hour early. The woman at the gate informed me that bikes are first on, first off. Solid perk. I parked in the lineup lane that I was instructed to go to and then familiarized myself with the provided amenities in the terminal. In typical NJ fashion everything was overpriced and done in poor cheap suburbanite taste but they have a shitty free mini golf course! The ferry arrived on time and the attendant slobbered over the KZ while he checked me in. Catching old dudes left and right. On the boat I was surprised that all the ferry men wanted was they bike lined up sideways to the cars, on the kick stand with only a large chock under the front wheel. No securing or strapping whatsoever. I was a bit reluctant but figured the ferry men knew best.

The boat itself is 3 decks. The first deck is the vehicle’s, second is a large interior section with more overpriced and shitty food, and the 3rd Deck is wide open with bar and lounge chairs. 3rd deck it was for me. I tend to get sea sick when indoors on a boat and to my surprise the ferry rocked more than I thought it would.

We came into the Lewes, DE port a little over an hour and I was first off as promised.  I hit throttle and ripped to DE1 only to find gridlock more fierce and frustrating than any I’ve dealt with on my other usual route. Thankfully there was a bus lane and large berm that I could use to skirt the god-awful traffic the rest of the way to OC.

My takeaway? Was is a cool experience? Yea of course. Being on a boat rules. Would I  do it again? Nah. Not worth the money, time, and unavoidable traffic. Next time I head down here I am determined to find a route from south of Dover to OC via all back roads.

Hey guys, I’m leading the ride again to this year’s Breakout. The ride alone is epic and the payoff is one of the coolest campgrounds I’ve ever done camped at—There’s a biker bar on the campground. We’ve also rallied four killer bands that are sure to make your face melt.

Meet me at the Barbary at 10am Saturday, June 14th. Kickstands up at 10:30. I will have tank maps for everyone.

Check out some photos here. There is also more info here.

Every year towards late August a handful of rare souls converge together to wreak havoc on the streets of Brooklyn, like some horrid natural phenomenon emerging from the sea to consume an entire city. The sheer anticipation of the solid one-night rumble attached to your motorcycle, surrounded by the sharpest cavalcade of your most trusted friends, is almost enough to say fuck it and sit at Perry’s Place in Kensington for the remainder of the night. Sense kicks in before another shot is poured and we round up the men, fire up the oil and head north in search of any blood that gets in our way.

Once on the interstate super highway, any driver to do us wrong finds a deluge of vulgar acts in their headlights, essentially making the highway a safer place for the next guy on two wheels, who may find himself in the path of the same now enlightened driver. This display of road justice may include performing sexual acts with your motorcycle tank while slowing the ignorant driver to a crawl.

After battling through heavy traffic on the BQE, we arrived at our destination at the Works Engineering shop. Now this is no back-alley, ram-shackled hut, rather, a highly-fortified, monstrous structure where we can hide from the creatures that appear after a 3:45am last call at the Matchless bar. Somewhere I had stopped taking pictures as I became too diluted with whiskey and beer, but I managed to snap off a few photos in the shop as our friend and host, Ray, entertained with new stories.

No one expects the morning to feel good. The only thing you can do is play catch-up with the weird sauce for the few hours missed while your brain rested. We rolled our bikes out from the catacombs of Works and parked them against the curb, while onlookers of the new york vintage motorcycle show took pictures and rallied down north 14th street. It is a much better show when you emerge from the inside looking out, smelling of road grease, stale booze and a wretched back ache from the floor/roof you made a bed that night—It’s the only way to prepare for this motorcycle show and looks more authentic than some wide-eyed gawker. Eventually we set out for food down Bedford Ave., looking as if some brutes were set loose from their cage. Shirtless Mike made sure to carry our strange vibes to the fullest exposing would be brunch eaters to a full chest of hair.

Somewhere around 1:30, I scouted out Manhattan in search of some threads and found no traffic to be had from Brooklyn to the tunnel (our exit strategy for later that day). I made my way back to the show and met the rest of our group.

After “looking hard” for the rest of the show, we decided to pack our remaining energy into the trip home over the Williamsburg Bridge, across Canal St., through the Holland tunnel, over the detoured Pulaski Skyway, down route one and into PA for a toll-less venture back to our philth down south.