Avoiding franchise food joints was one of our unspoken rules. Only three of our 29 post-noon meals were at a chain restaurant we could find back home. Of course, many of these small towns only had one or two options for food. Many times we were forced to eat at gas stations. But these weren't the typical junk food stops that you find in the lower 48. We even stumbled upon wonderful homemade soup at a fill-up station in Dease Lake, B.C., along the Cassiar Highway.

The day after our Yukon beer tour, we started hearing about road construction around an area called Destruction Bay. This turned out to be some of the worst road conditions I have ever ridden on. Farther up the highway, the road turned into what I can best describe as a roller coaster. Up and down we went over these bumps that were identified by these little orange flags, about a foot off the ground. Our speeds slowed down considerably after a couple of bumps sent us skyward off our seats.

The little orange flags eventually stopped appearing, just in time for our eyes to focus on the sign saying "Welcome to Alaska."

After answering a few questions and showing the border guard our identification, I thought to myself — we did it! We made it through all of the challenges the weather threw our way, to arrive in the 49th state in one piece. Parts of me wanted to get off my bike and do a little dance but at this point, I knew my body wasn't going to cooperate. I nodded at my two riding partners with a major sense of relief and started snapping pictures of anything with the word "Alaska" on it.

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We stayed the night in the first town we drove through — Tok, Alaska. We spent the evening in a hotel drying off our gear, power-washing our bikes, rejuvenating our spirits and discussing our options for the next couple of days.

My dad thought we should head northwest to Fairbanks and Denali National Park. But my uncle Tim was set on visiting the Harley Davidson shop in Anchorage and I wanted to take the advice of my co-worker (a former Alaska tour guide) and travel southwest to Valdez.

I must have thrown the biggest temper tantrum, because my wish was granted. We took the Richardson Highway to Valdez, and found it absolutely beautiful. It had everything motorcycle travelers love — curves, waterfalls, elevation gains, a mountain pass, glaciers and something we hadn't seen in a while — sunshine.

The incredible scenery provided us with the strength we would need that day to travel over 551 miles, taking us to Anchorage under the "midnight sun." Up until this point, the most we had traveled in a day was 432 miles.

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The dim sunlight behind the mountains, not our flashlights, provided the necessary light to set up our tents at the free campsites the Harley Davidson shop offers next to their building.

I awoke to engines being revved up at the motorcycle rental shop next door and jealous thoughts consumed me. How nice it might have been to have flown up to Anchorage in a couple of hours, jumped on a rental bike for a trip to see Denali National Park or to touch your front tire in the Arctic Ocean.

Then my uncle reminded me of the old saying — "It's not about the destination, it's the about the journey."

I knew he was right. Despite the rain, the mosquitoes and the sheer hard work of biking all those miles, I'll always be able to say something that few others can claim: I rode my motorcycle to Alaska. And I'm glad I did.

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