America on two wheels. 15 days of ecstasy.

Profu'
10 hours ago
26 min read

It took me months to get around to writing.

And not because I didn't want to. But because this journey wasn't just a succession of places. It was a confrontation with my own prejudices, with the noise online, with small fears and big joys.

I went in without huge expectations. Seriously.

I wasn't going to discover America. I was going to ride my Harley with my friends, long distances, without rushing. That's it.

I arrived in Chicago with a baggage you don't see on film: fear neatly packaged in social media packages. For several weeks now, all platforms have been delivering me the same reheated soup: tourists stopped for no reason, phones requested for inspection, stories of "it's not what it used to be," plus a political situation described as a bad movie, but played out too convincingly.

And, I admit, it caught me.

I caught myself looking for solutions that shouldn't exist on a vacation: "should I get another phone?", "should I review my posts?", "what are they asking at the entrance?" I was starting to get carried away.

It's just that the real America, the moment we landed, did something very simple: it was normal.

No drama. No movie scene. No "give me the phone."

Formalities, a calm officer, a "welcome," and that was it. It was so banal that I almost laughed to myself in the airport, like a man who gets scared of his own shadow and then feels ashamed for thinking it was a monster.

The hotel… didn't leave me with much of an impression. But it was clean. And that evening, the cleanliness was enough. We were tired from the road, from the jet lag, from "the adventure hasn't started yet." We got off, had something to eat, then went to bed again, because we knew that the next morning everything would start again.

The next day I woke up early, put on my Vibram FiveFingers and went for a run.

It may seem like a small detail, but for me this is how I "enter" a new place: I feel it. Literally.

Chicago at 6am isn't about tall buildings and Instagrammable photos. It's about the still-cool air that enters your lungs like a mouthful of truth. It's about nearly empty streets, traffic lights that change color for no one, and a kind of silence that makes you hear things that the day swallows up: a bus in the distance, an echo of footsteps, the wind around the corners.

I ran to a park near the hotel. And here came the first American "aha": the sidewalk.

It seemed harsh and… unfriendly to pedestrians. I immediately remembered a friend who told me that America doesn't think about infrastructure for walking, because the distances are too great. I don't know if it's the rule or just that area, but that morning I felt it in my feet.

At some point we reached a crossing and crossed into the park. There we bumped into a kind of forester/administrator who was just opening the entrance barrier, as if raising the curtain for the working day. The barrier was for cars, but his gesture had something…ceremonial. The kind of little routine that makes a place seem “settled”.

I did a few laps. The grass was wet, the ground was soft, and that FiveFingers feeling, when you feel every bump, completely connected me.

And the highlight: in the park, with the lake nearby and the smell of raw green, I had a brief moment when it seemed to me that I could be near Bucharest. Not identical, but familiar. As if the world is telling you: "don't be scared, it's not another planet."

I came back, took a quick shower, then went down to breakfast, where, honestly, you were “a bit starving.” You didn’t really have much choice, and that would become a small theme of the trip: good luck with Airbnbs where I could cook, otherwise I would have lived on coffee and hope.

After the morning energy, downtown Chicago came as a contrast: buildings that make you lift your head until your neck hurts, clean, orderly streets, and a feeling that everything is "taken care of," as if someone actually takes care of the city, not just inhabits it.

At the Skydeck, up there, Chicago was no longer a city. It was a map. It was a giant model where the cars looked like toys and the people were dots. And right there, looking down from above, I felt something interesting: the fear I had before seemed ridiculous. Not because "there are no risks in the world," but because I had built an America for myself out of videos and posts, and the America in front of me was... simply a normal day.

I walked through the city, letting my eyes wander. The smell of warming asphalt, the wind coming from between the buildings like a cold current under my shirt, and that urban noise, but not aggressive, but rather "functional".

And while Chicago unfolded in front of me, behind me was the real meeting: EagleRiders. The place where the adventure on two wheels and, more importantly, the reunion with my friends would begin.

EagleRider: the first "click" of the key and the real beginning.

I arrive at EagleRiders with the clear thought: "I'll take the Heritage and that's it."

It's just that there, life did what it does on good trips: it changed the plan without asking you.

I wait. Two Italians, husband and wife, also take over their motorcycle, excited, like two people who have just received the ticket to a movie they have long dreamed of. I sat down quietly, I observed, I breathed.

And then Good Man appears.

The reunion was the kind of moment that fills your chest. It's like you've known him forever and yet you realize you've missed him. We hit it off instantly, the prank of my "arrest" was also made light of, and for a moment I felt grateful to be part of this gang. The people in HOG are really special: they care, they joke, they include you, they make you feel "one of theirs."

When it's my turn, the consultant calmly tells me:

They don't have the motorcycle I reserved, but they're upgrading me to the Road Glide for free.

I stood there for a second, my thoughts in the air. The Road Glide is a different animal. Bigger. Heavier. More serious.

And yet, in the next second I felt both lucky and curious. Because that's exactly what travel is: accepting the unknown and turning it into a story.

I climbed into the saddle. I gripped the handlebars. The first contact. The first weight felt "for real". And the moment the engine started and made that deep, deep sound, I knew: done. This is where it starts.

Milwaukee was waiting for us.

I left Chicago with that feeling you only get on your first real day on the road: excitement mixed with a little tension. The Road Glide wasn't "mine" yet. I felt its weight at every stop. I was testing its brakes. I was searching for its balance point.

But after the first few kilometers, something settled.

The engine revved heavily and steadily, and I was beginning to understand its rhythm. It doesn't rush you. It doesn't aggressively challenge you. It invites you to flow.

The road to Milwaukee was the first serious adjustment to America in the saddle. Wide highways, good asphalt but not as good as in Europe, disciplined drivers. Nobody cuts you in the face. Nobody honks unnecessarily. It's a form of road respect that relaxes you without you realizing it.

The wind was constantly blowing from the side, a gentle pressure on the shoulders. The sun was slowly rising and the heat was starting to be felt behind, through the leather jacket. The smell of warm asphalt, slightly sweet. And that deep V-Twin sound that becomes the background for every thought.

Everyone was focused on the road, on adapting, on "entering" the journey.

Milwaukee, a quiet, laid-back city. Milwaukee doesn't hit you. It doesn't overwhelm you. It doesn't make you dizzy.

He receives you calmly.

Clean neighborhoods, neat houses, quiet. It's as if the city is telling you: "Here, things work without screaming."

The Airbnb was a pleasant surprise. Spacious, clean, thoughtfully designed. The kind of place where you feel like someone really wanted to make you feel good, not just take your money. We sat down, dropped off our bags, and for the first time since leaving, we felt like we were getting into a rhythm.

And then the search began... for beer.

I admit, I had the American image from the movies in my head: full refrigerators, bars on every corner, cold beer everywhere.

The reality? Surprisingly hard to find. Stores with strict opening hours, areas where sales are not allowed at all hours, rules that are not obvious to a European used to non-stop business.

I laughed. "I think the movies exaggerate," I said.

But it's precisely small details like these that give you the feeling that you're discovering a real country, not one from a movie.

The next day was, without exaggeration, a day of pilgrimage.

You don't enter the Harley-Davidson Museum like you would enter a regular museum. You enter like you would enter a story.

The building has something imposing, but without opulence. Inside, controlled silence. Clean floors. Warm light that falls exactly where it should.

The first models on display, simple, almost fragile compared to what we know today, made me think about the beginnings. About people who didn't know they were writing history, but were just trying to build something better.

In the "Vault", where rare motorcycles are kept, I felt like time stood still. Each model has a different energy. Some are aggressive. Others are elegant. Some seem built for long journeys, others for a show of strength.

We walked among them without haste. We read plaques. We looked at design details. The faint, almost imperceptible smell of metal and oil hung in the air. It's the kind of smell you recognize without being able to explain.

When we told the people there that we were from Romania, their reaction was genuine. A combination of wonder and respect. Maybe for them it seems incredible that someone would cross the ocean for a shared passion.

For me, it was a moment of fulfillment.

The factory visit completed the experience.

Orderly assembly lines. Focused people. Repetitive but precise movements.

Seeing an engine being made from raw metal is different from seeing the finished product in a showroom. There you see the process. The patience. The discipline. It's a mechanical dance.

I imagined each engine leaving that hall and arriving, perhaps, in another country, on another continent. Maybe even in Romania.

That day tired us. But it was a pleasant tiredness. The kind of tiredness that comes from too much beautiful information and too much enthusiasm.

In the evening, back at our accommodation, we sat around talking. About favorite models. About differences. About how America feels so far.

And, somewhere between the jokes and plans for the next few days, a clear thought emerged:

What we were experiencing wasn't just a geographical journey. It was a reconnecting with our passion.

I knew it was going to be a long two days to Sturgis. Many miles. Prairie. Small towns. Straight road.

I went outside a little that evening. The air was cool. Quiet neighborhood. No rush. No sirens. No horns.

I thought about all the warnings before I left.

To unnecessary fears.

To dramatic scenarios.

And I realized that up until that moment, America had been... surprisingly calm.

The next day was when the truly vast part of the story would begin.

The endless fields. The small town people. And finally, Sturgis.

We left Milwaukee knowing it would be two long days until Sturgis.

Not dramatic. Not technical. Not full of twists and turns. But long. Straight. Stretchy.

The kind of road that doesn't challenge you through difficulty, but through patience.

As we moved forward, the landscape simplified. The buildings became sparser. The towns smaller. The intersections more spaced out. And, slowly, what I would call "America in the big picture" emerged.

Cornfields.

Not a few hectares. Not "as far as the eye can see" in the poetic sense. But literally as far as the eye can see.

That dense green, almost electric in the midday light, stretched to the horizon. The road cut through the field like a line drawn with a ruler. The sky was huge. Much bigger than it looks in Europe. It was as if the dome had risen a few meters higher.

The engine ran steadily. 110–120 km/h. No effort. No unnecessary vibrations. The Road Glide was starting to suit me. I had learned its reactions. I could feel its weight when stopping, but at speed it became stable, almost protective.

The crosswind was coming in gusts. Not violent, but enough to remind you that you were in an open space. It was hitting your arms, moving your helmet slightly. The sun was beating down directly, and the heat was starting to rise through the asphalt, felt through the soles of your boots when you stopped.

And in all this decor, silence.

Not absolute silence, the engine was there, constantly, but that mental peace that comes when you no longer have aggressive stimuli. No horns. No traffic lights every 200 m. No rush.

On the route we passed small, clean towns with wide streets and low buildings. Houses with porches. Perfectly mowed lawns. American flags tied to poles.

And every time I stopped at the gas station, the same scenario would occur:

- Where are you guys from?

- Romania.

- Romania?! That's a long ride!

It was a sincere curiosity. Not invasive. Not superficial. People really wanted to know the story. And they didn't leave after the first line. They stayed. They asked one more question.

I kept hearing in Europe that Americans are fake. Up until that point, I had only seen open people. Smiling. Relaxed. Maybe culturally different, but not cold.

We arrived in Sioux Falls after a long but clean day. No incidents. No stress.

The city has a peaceful air. Not too big, not too small. We went out for dinner in a traditional restaurant. Lots of wood. Solid tables. Warm light.

Well-done meat. Generous portions. Simple taste, no frills.

After dinner I went for a little walk.

I stopped for a moment and looked at the motorcycle. Full of fine plain dust.

It was already "marked" by the road. And I liked that.

The next day, as we approached South Dakota, something subtly changed. Not just the landscape. But the proportions.

The roads became even wider. The spaces even wider. The sky even more present.

You felt small, but not insignificant. Small in a healthy way.

There were stretches where we drove for tens of kilometers without changing direction. Just a straight line, a steady horizon, and a steady engine. The kind of road that forces you to be present, because if your mind wanders too far, you become absent.

And yet, in the apparent monotony, details emerged: an isolated red barn, a metal silo reflecting the sun, a flock of birds rising from the field, a farm with machinery perfectly aligned.

Rural America is not spectacular in its drama.

It's spectacular in scale.

As we got closer to the Sturgis area, more and more motorcycles started to appear. Small groups. Then larger groups. Patches on vests. Smiles at the traffic lights.

You felt like you were approaching an epicenter.

The road was still long and straight, but the energy was starting to change. It wasn't just a road anymore. It was anticipation.

That evening, before we arrived at our lodging near Sturgis, I thought about something simple: up until that moment, America had taught me two things, that it's much more normal than the internet tells you, and much bigger than you imagine.

And the part that would truly stick in my mind was just coming.

As we approached South Dakota, the landscape began to change almost brutally. The green prairie slowly receded and gave way to a setting that seemed drawn from another world.

Entering Badlands National Park was the first moment I instinctively slowed down, not because I had to, but because my eyes couldn't keep up. Layered rocks in shades of cream, burnt yellow, and gray. Wind-shaped earth like a geologically sliced cake. The light fell obliquely, and every edge had its own distinct shadow.

The road winds through formations that seem fragile and yet are millions of years old. The motorcycle seemed small in the landscape. I was even smaller.

And it was precisely in this feeling of smallness that there was beauty.

When we arrived in Spearfish, near Sturgis, the atmosphere completely changed. After the aridity of the Badlands, the town seemed green, alive, breathable.

Houses without fences. Space between them. Quiet.

In the evening, before we left for Sturgis, I went outside for a bit. A rabbit was crossing the garden. It saw me. It stopped. We studied each other for a second. Then it continued on its way quietly, without panic.

Later I also saw deer nearby.

Not like on a reservation, but like in a normal neighborhood.

I was struck by the simple idea: when you don't fence everything in, nature doesn't disappear. It coexists.

As we approached Sturgis, the number of motorcycles increased noticeably.

The sound was becoming constant. V-Twin upon V-Twin. A kind of collective mechanical murmur.

It wasn't chaos. It was organized energy.

At that moment I realized that up until now I had seen rural America. This was where motorcycle America began.

After the raw energy of Sturgis, I felt the need for a road. Not for congestion, but for movement. And the Black Hills area offers exactly that: a road that flows, not just asphalt connecting dots.

First serious stop: Deadwood.

Deadwood is not kitsch. It's not an artificial Western setting. It has real weight. Old buildings, solid wood, sidewalks that creak slightly. The air has a subtle smell of sun-warmed wood and road dust.

Around us, bikers of all ages. Different patches, different stories, the same passion.

From there, we entered one of the most beautiful roads in the area: Needles Highway. Needles is not long. But it is intense.

Tight curves. Short climbs. Tunnels carved directly into the rock, so narrow that you instinctively pull your elbows closer to your body.

Those sharp vertical edges seem to be stuck in the sky. The light plays between them, and the asphalt undulates like a calm snake.

This is where the Road Glide finally became "mine."

The heaviness I had felt in Chicago was gone. In the corners, the bike was stable, confident, almost elegant. I could feel every change in lean. Every throttle was precise.

And then, inevitably, we arrived at Mount Rushmore. It looks big in pictures. In reality, it's imposing.

The faces carved in granite have a presence that makes you silent for a few seconds. It's not just the size. It's the idea of permanence. Of human ambition taken to the extreme.

I looked at the motorcycles parked in a line and had a simple thought: we had come thousands of kilometers for the road, but here we were, stopped in front of a piece of history that had survived generations.

Between Deadwood, Needles and Rushmore, the Black Hills connect everything with roads that keep you present. Dense forests, light filtered through pines, the smell of heated resin.

There are roads that tire you out. And there are roads that charge you. Black Hills was in the latter category.

After the Black Hills and the peace and quiet among the pines, we descended to Rapid City with the feeling that we were returning to civilization. But not to the hustle and bustle. To a relaxed civilization.

Rapid City has a clean, open air. Downtown is dotted with statues of American presidents, perched on street corners, almost at your level. They're not placed on inaccessible pedestals. They're there, like characters who discreetly participate in the life of the city.

We stopped at a Harley store. Obligatory ritual. T-shirts, patches, exchanging lines with other riders.

We also stopped by Black Hills Central Station, a small but soulful museum, where the smell of old wood and metal transports you to another era. Then to Reptile Gardens, where the heat in the air and the slightly humid smell of controlled vegetation contrasted with the dry air outside.

All of this was interesting. But we know very well that it wasn't what we came there for.

When I re-entered Sturgis, the city was in a state of constant vibration.

Motorcycles everywhere, at traffic lights, on sidewalks, in front of bars, moving slowly, almost ceremonially, up and down the main street.

The sound was constant. A heavy background, like a giant mechanical heart beating for the entire community.

I realized that here it doesn't matter what model you have. It doesn't matter how new the motorcycle is. What matters is that you are part of a phenomenon. Of a shared energy.

In the evening, when we retreated from the crowds, I realized that we had lived a full day without having done anything "extraordinary" in a touristic sense. We were just there. Present.

I knew a major change of pace was coming: leaving for Colorado.

Long road. Prairie. many miles almost straight.

I went outside for a bit in Spearfish. Quiet again. A complete contrast to the vibe of Sturgis. The sky was clear, and the temperature had dropped slightly. In the distance, I could still hear, vaguely, the occasional engine.

I thought then that the Sturgis experience is not about spectacle. It's about community. About thousands of people choosing, simultaneously, the same language: two wheels.

And the next day we would return to the simplest language of all, the long, straight road. We left South Dakota with a strange feeling: as if we were leaving a festival behind and entering meditation again.

I knew it was going to be a long stretch. A very long stretch. About 130 miles of mostly straight, prairie as far as the eye could see.

At first it seems simple. Good road, perfect visibility, no traffic. But after tens of kilometers without a serious curve, you start to feel the distance differently. Not physically, but mentally.

The asphalt stretched out before us like a gray ribbon cut perfectly through the green of the fields. The sky was huge, with no buildings to fragment it. Just you, the motorcycle, and the horizon.

The crosswind came back from time to time, pushing the bike slightly. Not enough to destabilize you, but enough to stay focused. And in all this apparent monotony, something unexpected appears: peace in your head, you no longer analyze anything, you no longer compare, you no longer judge, you just go.

As we approached the Colorado border, the landscape slowly began to transform. The horizon, which had been perfectly flat until then, began to take on subtle undulations. A shadow of relief in the distance. The mountains don't appear suddenly. They announce themselves.

The air seemed slightly different. Dryer, but clearer. The light was harsher. Vegetation was sparser in places, and, somewhere ahead, the skyline of Denver.

After so many miles of open country, the city seemed almost compact. A concentration of life in a confined space.

We arrived tired, but not exhausted. The long road doesn't break you physically, but it consumes you mentally through repetition.

Dinner that night had a different taste. Maybe because it was the first after such a meditative segment. Maybe because I knew what was coming: mountains, altitude, serpentines.

The morning in Colorado had a different smell. Cooler, clearer air. A kind of harsh freshness that goes straight into your lungs.

We were leaving for one of the key moments of the trip: Pikes Peak, 4,302 meters.

As we got closer to Colorado Springs, the terrain became more present. It wasn't just a line on the horizon. It was there, in front of you, massive, clear.

The hairpin bends tighten. The altitude increases. You feel the bike pulling differently. The air becomes thinner, and the engine seems to be breathing harder. And so do you.

As we climbed, the temperature dropped slightly. The wind became colder. My hands felt the difference through my gloves.

The last part of the climb is pure concentration. Potholes, railings, tight turns. There's no room for dreaming. Just the road. Up there, at over 4,300 m, I stopped and took off my helmet. And that's when I really felt it. Shortness of breath. Thin air. My lungs felt like they weren't filling completely.

It literally took my breath away. But the view… made up for it all.

Mountains as far as the eye can see. Blue lines that disappear into the distance. Huge sky. A different silence than the one on the prairie, sharper, purer. Up there you don't talk much. You look. You let your heart beat faster. You try to memorize the sensation.

The descent was a different experience. Brakes on. Maximum attention.

Through Woodland Park I felt the forest close again. Thicker air, the smell of greenery, silence.

That evening, on the outskirts of Denver, dinner tasted like a small victory. Not because I conquered a mountain. But because I lived it.

After the intense day at Pikes Peak, I felt the pace change. It was no longer about the vertical “wow,” but about the flow. There’s something special about Colorado roads: they don’t force you, they invite you.

We passed through greener, denser areas, with forests that smelled of resin and damp earth. Near Pike National Forest, the air had a different freshness. Cooler. Cleaner. More alive.

We passed through Evergreen, a place with an artistic air, where we found handmade clothes, small, carefully crafted shops. A pleasant contrast after miles of raw nature.

The road to Buena Vista was one of those where you don't feel rushed. The mountains sit on the horizon like petrified waves. The asphalt flows between them.

We continued on to Gunnison, where we had accommodations that looked exactly like you'd imagine a classic American motel. Parking in front of the room. Door directly to the outside.

The kind of place where you leave your helmet on the bed and for a moment look at it like a trophy of the day.

The morning in Gunnison was clear and cool. Mountain air, clean. The kind of air that wakes you up before coffee.

The first moment that took our breath away was the appearance of the Blue Mesa Reservoir.

Then we entered the Cimarron Canyon area, within the Curecanti National Recreation Area.

When we arrived in Ouray, it felt like someone had carved out a town from another era and placed it in a narrow valley.

Steep mountains all around, like natural walls. Buildings with 19th century facades. Quiet streets.

I stopped without haste. You don't rush here. You look.

The road to Silverton is a pleasure in itself. Fluid curves, views that suddenly open up, light that falls differently on each slope.

Silverton has that authentic mining town feel. I also saw a Tin Lizzie, a vivid reminder of the early days of the automobile. You don't feel aggressive tourism here. You feel living history.

In the evening we checked into the Mesa Verde Motel. The interior was a pleasant surprise. Thoughtful, themed design, with details that made you smile. After such a visually rich day, it was the kind of place where you leave your jacket on the chair and say, "Yeah, it was a good day."

In bed, before falling asleep, the images of the day flashed through my mind: the blue of the lake, the canyon walls, the valley of Ouray, the tranquility of Silverton.

Some days are beautiful. Some days are complete. This was complete. I left Colorado feeling like we were leaving the green and the water behind and entering a rougher chapter.

Upon entering Utah, the color palette changed abruptly. Green receded, and red and yellow began to dominate. Layered earth, time-worn rocks, intense sky.

The road through the desert has a different rhythm. The heat comes from all directions, from the sun, from the asphalt, from the air that seems to stand still. You feel your lips drying under your helmet. The water in your bottle becomes lukewarm in a few hours.

We passed through the Mexican Hat area, where that famous rock stands in an improbable balance. Everything around looks like a western movie set. And, in fact, it really is, many movies have been shot there.

At one point I pulled onto a seemingly harmless side road. Fine sand. Very low speed.

And then, without warning, the rear wheel sank. The bike got stuck in a small sandbar. I tried to hold on, but weight and inertia decided otherwise.

My first fall in America, not violent, not spectacular, but enough to remind me of a simple truth: asphalt is your friend. Sand, not.

I picked it up, with help. No hurt ego, just a little jolt of pride. The bike was fine. So was I. Just an extra layer of dust on it, and, paradoxically, I felt more present after that moment. More alert. More grounded.

The desert does not forgive superficial planning.

We drove further than I had estimated. Long road. Strong sun. No gas station on the horizon.

The reality in rural America is simple: distances are long, and gas stations are not every 3 miles.

We had to "water" OmBun's motorcycle from our tanks. An improvisation done calmly, without panic, but with the awareness that you don't want to be left in the middle of the desert without fuel. That moment had something symbolic.

Three motorcycles. Three friends. A long road. And the solution found together.

This is camaraderie on the long road: not just laughter and pictures, but also shared responsibility.

On the route we encountered areas inhabited by Navajo communities. Stands with handmade souvenirs, jewelry, simple but authentic objects. We bought a few small things, more as a sign of respect for the place and their culture.

Entering Williams was like returning from the desert into a story.

Williams is a gem. Clean streets, authentic Route 66 vibe, colorful storefronts. It's not just a pretty town. It's a town that knows what it is and doesn't try to be anything else. In the evening, I discovered Coors beer. Simple. Cold. Perfect after a day of heat and sand.

I stood on the street and watched a little street show. Music, people stopping, children laughing. After the harshness of the desert, Williams was like a warm break.

What's left of this day?

Falls aren't dramatic. They're lessons.

Gasoline is not guaranteed. It's a responsibility.

The desert is not empty. It is full of details that teach you humility.

And somewhere between the sand, the reindeer from the other day, and the sandbar where I stopped, I realized that true adventure isn't just in landscapes.

It's in the little moments when things don't go perfectly.

I left Williams with the still cool morning air and the feeling that this day was going to be special. I knew the Grand Canyon was coming, but no matter how much you see in pictures or movies, the mind can't prepare for the actual size.

The road there had a special charm. Canyons in shades of red, yellow, gray. Rock layers that seem painted in section. In places, pine forests, some green, others marked by past fires. Burnt, black trunks, standing like silhouettes in a peaceful setting. At one point, on the side of the road, I saw an elk.

Big. Imposing. The North American deer has a presence that forces you to slow down without thinking. It looked at us calmly, as if it were allowing us to pass through its territory.

Then, the Grand Canyon.

You get closer and you don't immediately understand what you see. It looks like an edge. A chasm. Then the eye begins to distinguish the layers. The depth. The shadows.

Size puts you in your place. It shows you how small you are and how big time is. The wind blew gently from the canyon, bringing warm air, but with a different vibration, like an echo coming from deep within.

I stayed there longer than I had planned. I wasn't doing anything. I was just watching.

In the evening we stopped at the accommodation in Colorado City. Simple motel. Parking in front of the room. The door directly to the outside, typical American. After a day like this, we didn't need long conversations. The Grand Canyon occupies your mind for hours.

In the morning we left Colorado City with the air still bearable, but we knew the day would be hot. Direction: Nevada.

As we approached Valley of Fire State Park, color became dominant. Not a subtle red. But a deep, fiery, almost incandescent red. The rocks seem lit from within. Strange formations, waves of solidified stone. The “Seven Sisters” area rises from the desert like a group of figures guarding the entrance to another world.

The heat was serious. Not just heat from the sun. Heat coming from the ground. The air seemed to tremble above the asphalt. When you stopped, you could feel the temperature rising through the soles of your feet.

I drank more water than I had in any other day. Breathing became labored under the helmet, the hot air instantly drying out my throat. And then, after hours of red rock and sun-baked road, the massive concrete of Hoover Dam appeared.

An impressive construction by its sheer size. Concrete, geometry, order. A total contrast to the natural chaos of the Valley of Fire. I stopped briefly. The gaze instinctively goes down, towards the water, and then up, towards the monumental structure.

From there to Las Vegas the road is short, but psychologically it's long. Because you know what's coming.

After days of vast nature, entering Las Vegas is almost violent to the senses.

Themed buildings. Lights. Panels. Movement. Everything is exaggerated. And that's exactly what makes it fascinating.

We arrived in Las Vegas after the fiery day in Valley of Fire and the stop at Hoover Dam. The first concern? Accommodation. Motorcycles parked, luggage left, a quick shower, that moment when you wash the desert dust off you and it's like you completely change your skin, and then, without a complicated plan, we did what you have to do in Vegas: we went out on the Strip. On foot.

Not running between objectives. Not with an Uber. Walking. Feeling the city. I already knew what was coming. I had been before. I was curious if the sensation would fade the second time. If it wasn't "wow" anymore.

Nothing faded. We took in the themed hotels one by one, as if we were checking off chapters in a surrealist novel. At The Venetian Resort, we re-entered that artificial but incredibly well-executed world: canals, gondolas, a painted ceiling that mimics the sky. You know it's not real, but it works.

At Caesars Palace, everything is monumental. Marble, columns, grand proportions. An assumed exaggeration.

We passed the New York-New York Hotel and Casino, with the city skyline reinterpreted in miniature, and stopped at the fountains at Bellagio. The music starts, the water rises, the lights dance. And, even though you know it's a scheduled show, it still grabs you.

Vegas has something special: it's over the top, but it doesn't lie. It tells you from the very first moment that it's a show.

One of the highlights was The Sphere.

From the outside it looks unreal. A huge sphere dominating the horizon. From the inside… it's another dimension.

I saw "Postcard from Earth." It's hard to describe the experience. It's not just a screen. It's a space that completely surrounds you. You don't look at the image. You're in it.

For a few dozen minutes, I forgot I was in a city of scumbags. The technology absorbs you. The sound comes from all directions. The visuals are overwhelming.

It was the kind of experience that makes you say, "Okay, this is next level."

I also went to Cirque du Soleil, to the KÀ by Cirque du Soleil show.

Here, the human body becomes a storytelling instrument. Mobile scenography, incredible acrobatics, strength, precision. It's not just circus. It's theater, dance, technique and emotion combined.

I sat in the auditorium and thought about how different this kind of show was from the silence of the Grand Canyon two days ago. And yet, both left me speechless.

Two long nights. I had two long nights in Vegas. Unhurried walks, in and out of hotels, a little gambling, more out of experience than hope.

And yes, it was my second time here. And yes, I was equally impressed.

Maybe because I didn't come to judge it. I came to live it.

Vegas is not about authenticity.

It's about energy. About controlled excess. About light in a desert that, by day, can melt you.

And that's what makes it fascinating. I left Las Vegas with that feeling you get when you know the adventure is coming to an end. It wasn't sadness. It was awareness.

The road to Los Angeles threw us back into the desert. Scattered cacti. Sand. Dry air that sticks your lips under your helmet. The strong, merciless sun.

We stopped at Calico Ghost Town, a 19th-century mining town preserved as a testament to the gold rush. Wooden, dusty buildings. A steam locomotive on display as a silent witness to an era when people came here with high hopes and left, perhaps with empty or full pockets.

I walked slowly through the buildings. The smell of old wood and sun-warmed dust. Everything seemed suspended in a parallel time.

It was a fitting stop. A kind of involuntary metaphor: cities that are born, flourish, and then remain just stories.

Entering Los Angeles was a brutal contrast to the wide spaces we had passed through.

Congestion. Overlapping highways. Continuous flow of cars.

We arrived at the Hollywood Walk of Fame. The stars, the actors' footprints, tourists everywhere. We walked among them, looked for familiar names, took a few pictures.

But I can't say I "felt" the city. Los Angeles is huge. Fragmented. You don't understand it in a few hours. You tick it off. You touch it. That's it.

I took the metro, almost an hour and forty minutes, then an Uber to the airport.

And there, without drama, the adventure ended. What was left after 15 days?

Not just the Badlands.

Not just Pikes Peak.

Not just the Grand Canyon or Vegas.

The small moments remained:

The rabbit that stood still for a second in Spearfish.
Rear wheel sunk in the sand.
Gasoline shared between friends in the middle of the desert.
Breathless at 4,300 m.
The silence on the edge of the canyon.

America is not what the internet tells you.

It's how you feel it from the saddle.

I left with induced fears.

I returned with gratitude.

It's a big country. With warm people. With exceptions, obviously, but you don't judge a continent by a few shadows.

And if you don't have America on your list... maybe now is the time.

Not for pictures.

Not for ticking goals.

But for that rare moment when you ride hundreds of kilometers, without rushing, and feel that the engine and heart beat in the same rhythm. PS: About the Road Glide, after 15 days and thousands of kilometers

It would be unfair to end the story without saying a few things about the motorcycle that carried me through this entire adventure: the Harley-Davidson Road Glide.

It was interesting. Really.

The first thing that won me over was the huge screen, the infotainment. Being "in the language" of technology, I admit, it was not difficult to impress me. Clear navigation, information at hand, everything digital and well integrated. For a long trip, this part is a big plus. It gives you mental comfort. Control. Quick access to everything.

When it comes to comfort, I have nothing to complain about.

It's a motorcycle that sits well on the open road. Stable in a straight line, predictable, comfortable for long distances. For the highway and the prairie, it's made for exactly that.

But…

There were moments, a combination of cornering, speed, and strong crosswinds, where I felt the bike tend to wobble slightly. Not dramatically. Not dangerously. But enough to let me know it wasn't completely in my comfort zone.

And here comes the honest part.

After 15 days, my conclusion is simple:

For now, I like my motorcycle better.