SR 135 – Between SR 45 and SR 46
If you ride motorcycles in Indiana, chances are you know this stretch of road very well. Most of the really good riding roads in Indiana, are in the southern portion of the state, and SR 135 runs the state from north to south.
In addition to that, it is the connecting leg on a loop from Bean Blossom, to Nashville, to Bloomington, and back that is about as perfect of a loop as a rider can want. Lots of quick sweeping turns, a bit of technical riding…and if you can run it mid week….very little traffic. Even in traffic there are only traffic signals on the corners, so it makes a good run even then.
Unfortunately the footage of the two longer legs got corrupted, so I am gonna have to bite the bullet for you the viewers, and make a couple more loops to get good footage of them. But I will do what is necessary to keep you entertained and relaxed.
Enjoy this piece of motorcycle ride amsr, and happy riding.
Here is the computer pretending to be Hemingway, and writing about this ride.
Ride on.
The road called to him, as it always did on days like this. The sun hung high in a cloudless sky, warm but not scorching, casting dappled shadows through the dense canopy of the trees. He swung his leg over the motorcycle, feeling the familiar weight of it beneath him. It was a machine of metal and gasoline, but it had a soul, and he knew it as well as his own.
He kicked the starter, and the engine roared to life, a deep, throaty sound that echoed in his chest. It was a sound that promised freedom, the kind you could only find on a road that wound through the woods, curving and dipping like a ribbon laid over the land. State Road 135, stretching from Bean Blossom to Nashville, was one such road. He had ridden it before, but each time was like the first—full of promise, full of life.
He eased the bike onto the asphalt, the tires gripping the road with confidence. The air was cool as it whipped past his face, carrying the scent of pine and earth, the sharp tang of wildflowers in bloom. The trees pressed in close on either side, tall and green, their leaves rustling in a breeze that whispered of summer.
Check out our Paid Sponsor and support this channel!
Visit the Fix My Hog club page!
He leaned into the first curve, feeling the bike respond as if it were an extension of his body. The road was empty, save for the occasional car or truck, but they were distant memories, gone as soon as they passed. Here, it was just him and the machine, carving a path through the green world that surrounded him. The throttle responded to the twist of his wrist, the engine growling as it powered him through the turns.
Each bend in the road brought a new sensation—a quick jolt of adrenaline, the rush of wind in his ears, the way the sunlight flickered through the trees. It was a dance, and he was the lead, guiding the motorcycle through each step with precision and grace. He knew this road, knew its quirks and its challenges, but it never bored him. It was always alive, always shifting, a living thing that demanded respect and offered joy in return.
As he rode, he felt the world fall away. There was no tomorrow, no yesterday, only the present moment—the hum of the engine beneath him, the blur of the trees as they sped past, the perfect arc of a curve taken just right. This was life, stripped down to its essence. The motorcycle was his companion, his partner in this journey through the heart of Indiana, where the road curved and twisted like the thoughts in his mind.
The miles slipped away, unnoticed and unimportant. What mattered was the feel of the handlebars in his grip, the way the tires hugged the pavement, the way the world seemed to open up as he crested a hill and saw the valley below, bathed in golden light. It was a moment of pure beauty, a glimpse of something eternal in the fleeting rush of speed and motion.
He rode on, content in the knowledge that this was where he belonged—in the saddle, on the road, with nothing but the wind and the trees to keep him company. The ride would end, as all rides must, but for now, he was free. The road was his, and the joy of it filled him up, a simple pleasure that needed no explanation, no justification. It was enough just to be, to ride, to live.
