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Brian A. Hopkins Rocky Mountain High DAY 1 (THURSDAY, 21 JUNE 2007) The plan was to meet Greg and Elaine in Amarillo (they'd be riding up from Irving, TX) about seven in the evening at the Best Western on the west side of town. They'd already reserved a room for us. About 3 p.m., I rolled the ZZR out of the garage. She was already loaded, had a full tank of gas, and was as anxious as I was to be underway. The last trip we'd made together had been back in December, when we'd ridden to the Gulf Coast to visit my folks. She'd been feeling neglected since, having watched me take the Beemer on more than one trip while she sat covered in the garage. (Yes, my bikes do get jealous of one another.) I rolled the bike out of the garage, so that I could pull my truck inside. Then I went in the house to round up a last few items and take care of some ... uh ... personal business. A few minutes later, I heard a rumbling from outside. Surely that's not thunder, I thought. Alas, it was. I walked outside to find it pouring down rain. I rolled the ZZR back into the garage, wondering why lately every time I go to leave on a moto adventure Mother Nature decides to start spewing on me. And always on a clean bike no less!
Since it looked like the type of scattered showers that'll quickly pass, I opted to wait it out. I called and left a message for Greg and Elaine, telling them I might be a few minutes late. My neighbor was out farting around in his yard, spotted me waiting with the bike, and asked where I was heading. "Canada," I replied, which prompted the anticipated disbelief. The rain grumbled off to the east after about 20 minutes. I was heading in the opposite direction for once, so that was cool. I rolled the bike back out, chased the dogs out of the garage (otherwise they'd be stuck in there until the wife got home), closed the door using the keypad, and saddled up. I was gonna be a little bit late, but wasn't worried about Greg and Elaine running off and leaving me. Elaine had shipped me all the snacks for the trip because they were crowded for space on the Wing. There was no way she was gonna take off without her food! What followed was a quick (and boring) jaunt out I-40 to Amarillo. Four hours of watching the pavement hiss by, thinking about how my brand new tires were already getting squared off from all that vertical time. The bike was running and handling great. Gone was the steering issue that Rich and I had finally attributed to the worn front tire. And the big 1200cc inline four was purring like a kitten, barely turning 5,000 rpm as it propelled the ZZR down the interstate at a well-tuned 90 mph. I was comfy and happy, my jones for motion being fed, knowing I had many more days of this ahead of me. I pulled into the Best Western parking lot about 7:15. Greg and Elaine were there waiting for me. Hugs were exchanged all around. We were all pretty excited. Greg was hopped up on a Monster Energy Drink and didn't really want to stop for the day, so Elaine went inside and got us out of our hotel reservations with no penalty (thanks, Best Western!). They transferred their rain gear and some odds and ends over to my bike in order to make some room on the Wing. I had plenty of room on the ZZR. Not only was I running a much larger tank bag than usual (to accommodate the radio setup), but all my clothes were stashed in the red dry sack (kayaking gear!) you see on the passenger seat of the bike, leaving my Givi hardbags free for my own rain and cold weather gear, tools, first aid kit, snacks (at least one whole saddle bag's worth to keep Elaine happy!), and whatnot. We grabbed some quick grub at a nearby Arby's, then we were soon on the backroads northwest of Amarillo, ultimately bound for Colorado. The scenery was the Red Rock/Palo Dura canyon/arroyo sorta stuff for a while, miniature of what you see around Albuquerque and made popular by Georgia O'Keefe, but this quickly dissolved into prairie as we entered the Rita Blanca and Kiowa National Grasslands. Night came early, the setting sun obscured by heavy cloud cover. Worried about deer, we did the side-by-side thing, lighting up the prairie with the high beams from both bikes. We passed a Boys Ranch with a big sign that said "Visitors Welcome," and I wondered if that included Michael Jackson. I saw the sign for the Capulin Volcano slip by in the night, a reminder that I still haven't seen it even though I've been out that way several times now. (It's on my list.) Eventually we rolled into Raton, New Mexico, where Highway 64 and I-25 meet. Must have been 10 or 11 o'clock, but my note taking was lax for this whole trip. We figured that was enough for the first day, so we found a room for the night and crashed. I logged 501 miles for the day. For Greg and Elaine, it was probably 200 more than that.
DAY 2 (FRIDAY, 22 JUNE 2007) Greg made sure we were up bright and early. Elaine says he's an alien, and I think communications with the mother ship are clearest in the early hours of the day before sunspots and whatnot interfere. Keep him tanked up with Monster Energy Drinks and he's good for several thousand miles a day on his Wing. It's actually hard to get him to stop at the end of the day ... or at any other time for that matter. Elaine had to beg him to stop to eat and he teased her endlessly about being hungry all the time, kept telling her how when just he and I travel together we might stop and eat once a day (almost true). We tease because we love, of course. For breakfast that first morning, the alien ordered oatmeal, a substance he plans to take back to his homeworld when he leaves us. Elaine picked on him for eating it. I dubbed him the Oatmeal Kid, not letting on once during the entire trip that I actually enjoy a good bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar myself. He won't actually know until he reads this -- ha! We needed to make some time because we had a lot of ground to cover and a lot of stuff to see. First on my list was the Great Sand Dunes National Monument. Buzzing up I-25 made sense, even if the alien and I both loathe interstates. When the exit for Great Sand Dunes came up, however, Greg just rolled on by. No problem, I thought, he must know some back way there. But as the miles rolled by, it became obvious that the alien had some aversion to touring the Great Sand Dunes. His excuse later was that we didn't have time, and he was right, but I wish he'd at least discussed it with me first. I couldn't really complain, though, because I had made the assignments for the trip. Greg was in charge of navigation. Elaine was in charge of making sure we ate enough. And I was in charge of ... well, in charge of making sure everyone else knew their duties! We stopped in Colorado Springs for gas. A motorcycle cop on a Harley approached us and naturally we thought we were in trouble. Turned out the cop just wanted to talk for a bit. Nice fellow. Greg asked him if he hassled a lotta sportbike riders and the cop confessed that most of them just flip him off and make a run for it. He can't catch them on the Harley and doesn't even try. They don't even radio ahead to other cops or anything. Amazing! So if you're ever in Colorado Springs and a cop lights you up, I guess you can just twist the throttle and go. They're not going to chase you. We told the cop we were heading up to Mount Evans so we could ride "the highest road in America" and he suggested a good route. He said he couldn't get any of the local riders to ride up there with him, which is rather sad. All that great riding and the locals spend their time riding in town? Elaine put some crackers in her tummy and we were good to go again, finally leaving behind the accursed interstate, but we didn't get too far into the Rockies before a downpour found us. Rather than gear up for the rain, I suggested we break for lunch at an interesting log cabin cafe in the middle of nowhere: Zoka's. The restaurant didn't open until noon, but wouldn't you know it, it was about 5 minutes 'til. The rain, the time, the fact that Zoka's was right there and Elaine was hungry ... it was all too fortuitous. We had to stop. With any luck, while we ate, the storm would pass by or peter out.
Zoka's was a bit pretentious, artsy, and pricey -- like most establishments in Colorado -- but the food was absolutely delicious. It was nestled in one of those river-carved canyons where the road twists and twines along the river banks, shadowed in pines and evergreens. These are my favorite roads to ride. The turns are sweet. The air is brisk and clean and deliciously, moistly forest scented. There's something about moving water that invigorates the soul, and I always feel a special energy flowing with it, whether on the water itself or running parallel to it on a bike. I used to love to canoe and kayak for this very reason. Drift diving (where you simply flow along the reef, carried by the ocean current) is the absolute best. And sailing has always owned a special spot in my heart. It's as if the flowing water is an artery of the Earth and when moving with it your own pulse is synched to that of the universe or something ... But enough of my feeble attempt to wax poetic ... we've got riding to do. The rain did indeed pass over while we ate. The sun came out. Birds sang and everything was right with the world. We dried off the seats on the bikes and moved on, happy and well-fed. I think even Elaine's appetite was satisfied for an hour or so.
We found our way to Mount Evans, but wouldn't you know it, we got stuck behind a long line of Harleys (why do they always travel in herds?) slowly making their way to the top. No worries; we relaxed and enjoyed the incredible scenery. Those helmet-munching little marmots were everywhere. I kept trying to get a photo of one, but they kept ducking into the rocks every time I would point the camera. At over 14,000 feet, the ZZR -- which is carbureted, not fuel-injected -- was having difficulty idling, so when I'd let off the throttle to try to capture a marmot photo, the bike would die on me. Anyway, the end result of all that is that I never did catch one of the little buggers on film. Oh well. (The helmet reference, of course, refers to a rather well known Adventure Rider story where a rider in the Rockies sets his helmet aside whilst making some repair to his motorcycle. An hour or so later, when he picks up his helmet, he finds that a marmot has devoured nearly the entire lining. Never trust a marmot!)
My bike wasn't the only thing having difficulty breathing atop Mount Evans. All three of us felt light-headed. A simple walk left you out of breath and dizzy. It's for sure I wasn't going to run any marathons (or even chase the hot tourist chicks) at that altitude.
There was still deep snow in many spots on either side of the road, some drifts more than a dozen feet high. It took me a minute to figure out what the poles set beside the road are for. These poles are probably twenty feet tall, spaced evenly along both sides of the road. I'm assuming they're to show the guy driving the snow plow where the road is under all the snow.
The views, of course, were amazing.
Eventually, we retreated in search of breathable air for both ourselves and the poor wheezing ZZR. The day was fading fast. We had just enough time to make a quick run through Rocky Mountain National Park, our progress hindered by traffic, but the views, once again, making it all worthwhile.
As the sun went down, we were rewarded with a glorious sunset, the first of many for this trip. We tried to get a room just outside of Rocky Mountain National Park, but everywhere we stopped there were no vacancies, so we pressed on into the night, finally getting a room in Granby.
DAY 3 (SATURDAY, 23 JUNE 2007) Gregger made sure we were up and moving early again, but he needed his oatmeal before we could make any real progress. The first place in town where we stopped had all these goofy books on the tables -- wish I could remember some of the titles, sorta the "You know you're a redneck if..." kinda stuff, most by the same author, whose name I should have written down. We should have recognized the books as a bad omen. I mean, if they expect you to have time to read a book while waiting for your breakfast...? There was only one waitress trying to take care of at least eight tables worth of hungry people. Fifteen or twenty minutes went by, more than enough time for me to get bored with the goofy books. When the waitress waited on the folks who'd actually come in after us -- accidentally, I'm sure, but one of us made a joke about the joint not serving "motorcycle trash" -- I forwarded the motion that we find someplace else to eat. Elaine seconded the motion (all in accordance with Robert's Rules of Order, of course). And the alien navigated us out the door and across the street to where we had an excellent breakfast. Oatmeal for the Gregmeister. Eggs and bacon and whatnot for Elaine and me. Thus fortified, we headed west on scenic Highway 40, bound for that corner of Colorado and Utah so preoccupied with dinosaurs. It was a bit nippy, so I gave Elaine my winter gloves, crossing my fingers that it wouldn't rain because those are also my only waterproof pair of gloves. I was running my heated grips and wearing my heated vest, so I was comfy. As we left the mountains and dropped into the flatlands of northwestern Colorado, it warmed up quickly, and soon we were all shedding layers of clothing and eventually sweating inside our brain boxes. At a Sinclair gas station somewhere, there was a brontosaurus with a saddle. Naturally, Elaine and I had to take him for test rides. Gregger would have none of this silliness. You can see him filling his gas tank in the background and doing his best to ignore the antics of me leaning the Bronto into a curve and trying to get a knee down.
Or maybe he was busy cleaning the bugs off the windshield of his Wing ... but I haven't written about that yet, have I? The alien cannot stand to have bugs on his windscreen. I think his original job on the mothership (before he was sent as an advance scout to determine if Earth is worth invading, ala L. Ron Hubbard's excellent Mission Earth series) was to keep the windshield clean. Every hour or so, he'd have to don his spacesuit and go out into space with his rags, one wet rag stashed in a Ziplock baggy and one dry rag -- with the two never coming together because that would cause contamination and introduce inefficiency into the cleaning process -- and clean all the space critters off the windshield. Here on Earth, he carries on this practice with his Goldwing, stopping ten, twelve times a day to clean away the bugs. Each night, he cleans his rags, rinsing out and resoaking the wet one, and making sure they're carefully packed away in their Ziplocks. Even though I carry my own cleaning supplies, whenever Gregger gets his rags out, I generally saunter over and clean my helmet visor (much easier than digging out my own stuff and you can pretty much count on Greg getting out his rags at EVERY stop). Elaine did the same at least once. I remember her saying, "Ewwww, give me the rags! I have a bug on my helmet!" I looked at her -- "A bug? You're whining about one stinkin' bug?" -- and showed her my helmet which was plastered with about a million of the little bastards, to the point where I could barely see. So the front of the Wing was kept spotless. As for the ZZR ... well, when I'm on a long ride, I generally don't clean the bike. The Z got plastered, as usual, the bugs building up on the front in a thick crust of arthropoidal ooze, a landscape of twisted multi-jointed limbs, exoskeletal fragments, dismembered antennae, and startled bug eyes, featuring all the colors of the rainbow (and then some) in a three-dimensional Rorschach soup. You know that old joke, what's the last thing to go through a bug's mind just before he splatters on your windshield? Well, there were plenty of those smeared on the ZZR as well. Highway 40 carried us past Dinosaur National Monument (which wasn't on my list -- I mean, hey, I saw Jurassic Park several times already) and into Utah, where we caught 44 up through the Flaming Gorge National Recreation Area (which was on my list). Flaming Gorge was beautiful, and my photo simply does not do the colors in that area justice: the Caribbean blue of the water, the reds and mauves of the canyon sides peppered with variegated greens, all set beneath a great big boundless azure sky adrift with cottony cumuli.
It would have been cool to ride down into the gorge, maybe see the marina, campgrounds, and whatever else they had, maybe dip my toe in the water ... but our alien navigator passed by the turnoff. Somewhere we had lunch at a gas station/convenience store/deli kinda place. Good food, a snaggle-toothed (but friendly) waitress, and a really hot blonde behind the cash register. We turned north, bound for the Grand Tetons, and hit some hellacious winds. For some reason, this entire trip, no matter what direction we were heading, the wind seemed to almost always be coming strong from the left, meaning my front tire's probably worn unevenly again and eventually won't turn worth a crap. Grumble. Grumble. In time, we made it through the winds, across the barren flatland (which I think Elaine referred to as the "Ride through Hell"), and into Jackson, Wyoming. Just south of Jackson, on Highway 191, is probably my favorite stretch of road from the whole trip. The road here parallels the Snake River, winding its way through canyon walls forested in pungent pines. The curves were deliriously sweet, the pavement was perfect, and I could almost hear the powerful river bubbling around and smashing over the smooth granite boulders, tumbling and frothing in white-water-frenzy on its way to the Grand Canyon a thousand or so miles south of us. Like the water, the Mighty ZZR and I flowed effortlessly through the turns, the Avon Storms stuck like glue at make-you-giggle lean angles. I was drawing energy from the river itself, feeling it coursing glacier-clean and crisp through my veins, cleansing my soul. I could ride that stretch of road over and over again until fatigue finally had me collapsing by the side of the road, where I'd just sleep amongst the wildflowers until rested enough to get up and do it all over again. That's how good it was. That marvelous stretch of road delivered us to Jackson, Wyoming and the Grand Tetons. In the green fields spread below the peaks, we found a heard of Buffalo lazing about in the waning sunlight.
With no room at the Jackson Lake Lodge, Elaine cajoled the manager into opening up a bank of cottages so that we could have one. While waiting in front of the lodge for Elaine to make room arrangements, I watched a squirrel nibbling at something that had been dropped on the road and then squashed into the pavement. Whatever it was, it must have been tasty, because the little guy would not budge from the roadway, no matter how many cars tried to get by him. I was worried some inconsiderate or careless stooge would eventually crush the little bugger. Everyone would stop, though, then eventually ease around him. He'd just wave -- "Hey there, tourists!" -- and keep on eating. Didn't even mind when I walked right up to him and took his picture.
The cottage was fantastic, although the Tetons were mostly hidden by trees. The view from the lodge, however, was breathtaking.
We had dinner at the fancy-smancy (and expensive!) restaurant in the lodge, rather than the more rustic and affordable (and much more appropriate for "motorcycle trash") grill next door. As we ate dinner, I related how, in a recent etiquette class I had been subjected to at work, we'd been told it wasn't cool with Little Miss Manners to take your dinner roll and make a butter sandwich out of it. Of course, I related this story whilst making a butter sandwich. This led to a variety of "You might be a redneck if..." jokes related to our sitting in such a fancy establishment. We all noted that I was the only person there wearing a ball cap (a yellow Valentino Rossi #46 Yamaha cap). Of course, one sign you're in a fancy establishment is when they make moose out of the butter.
During dinner, we were treated to the sun working its magic on the Tetons. Even the alien was impressed as he sipped his wine and transmitted images back to the homeworld.
As the moon came out full and bright, we retired to our little cottage in the pines and the much deserved slumber of motorcyclists who'd done almost 600 miles that day.
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