Outside's Go Magazine - Travel and Style for Men

Three hours have passed, the sun has long set, and the tinted visors on our helmets mean it'll be a long 50 miles south to our hotel in Beja. Tim tries to steer the conversation toward business, whether Miguel would be interested in importing with VinoTerra, but before he can, Miguel insists that Tim identify his four wines blind.

Tim does.

"And what do you think?" Miguel asks.

"I'll tell you tomorrow. I have to ask my stomach."

Leaving Quinta do Mouro, Tim is confident that he and Miguel will iron out a deal, and sure enough, a couple weeks after we return to the States, they have. Even better, while Miguel was regaling me with stories, Tim was trying a bit of Alento, a wine from Miguel's son's upstart winery. Tim thinks it is the best inexpensive wine we've had — soft, juicy, and smooth, it's a modern approach with traditional grapes, Trincadeira and Aragones, and small amounts of cabernet sauvignon.

With the bottom- and top-end wines covered, we're still searching for the elusive $15 bottle, that excellent value that will turn the experimental drinker into a connoisseur. The odds aren't in our favor; only one appointment remains. We should do some more research, chat up more sommeliers. But then, Alentejo appears plagued by clean air and those poor Buells have sat neglected for almost 12 hours.

We snake our way out of Beja for an afternoon of hot laps. The beautifully smooth white pavement tracks straight and fast through endless flat fields of wheat that remind me of eastern Washington. The rpms spool up. Red roofs, white plaster buildings, the stone keep of the castle — everything recedes in our sideview mirrors except for a high-revving pack of sport bikers. They appear out of nowhere wearing full leathers, with tiny bags bungeed to the back, probably on the way to watch the upcoming MotoGP races. There's at least a half-dozen of them, and after slowing to 85 mph to check out our rugged bikes, they taunt us with a game of follow-the-leader. Team America battles the Mosquitoes. Next thing we know, we're making three-semi, four-car passes and seriously considering following their top-speed lane splits. Given our comparative reluctance to splat on the grille of an oncoming semi, I'm convinced we've lost. Tim knows better. He throws on his blinker and thrashes off down a country road. The sport bikers slow, then, seeing the gravel, motor on. Bye-bye, Euro twerps. By the time we reach Herdade da Mingorra, we're hopped up like moto punks.