Vegas Baby

Route 15 leaves Zion and instantly heads into the desert. If they have highways in hell, I imagine they are a lot like route 15 across the northwestern Mojave Desert. I was ill prepared for the extreme heat I encountered.

People drive across the Mojave Desert every day, but the vast majority of them are in air conditioned cars. They probably do not even notice the outside temperatures; even if they are hovering around 115. People ride across the desert in motorcycles too, but they generally do not do it in the middle of the afternoon. I think I saw one.

It was so hot I had to keep my face shield closed because the blast from the superheated slipstream was like staring into a blow drier. I even closed the vents. I was riding along slow cooking my brain. My fingers were burning. The inside of my thighs were on fire. I could not let them touch the gas tank. The sun was so bright my eyes hurt inside my super dark (think welders) goggles.

The ride across the desert (a.k.a hell’s highway) was 130 miles. I stopped 3 times to drink anything I could get my hands on. At one McDonalds I ordered a large drink and refilled it 5 times.


At the end of the ride was Vegas where the traffic clogged streets were even hotter than the highway across the desert. I had never been to Vegas before. I had no idea how the city was organized, and all my maps had blown away in Missouri (or Illinois). I had reservations at the Golden Nugget. I had originally booked a room in the Mirage, but the Nugget was half the cost and I could not tell the difference from the web sites.


My strategy for finding the Golden Nugget was to find the strip (Las Vegas Blvd) and cruise along looking for the Nugget. I went up and down the strip two or three times. I was nearly dead from heat stroke when I finally gave up and called the Nugget for directions. They are not on the strip. They are in downtown Las Vegas away from all the fun. No big deal; the trip was not about Vegas anyway.
I pulled the bike up to the main entrance of the Golden Nugget and proceeded to remove all the bags as limousines came and went. I made a curious sight. I was covered in dust and must have smelled like hell. The bike was dirty and my bags were everywhere. I received more than one odd glance. A few people did come over to look at the bike. The bike’s exhaust manifold has three ports (for 3 cylinders). Guys are always coming up to me and saying “Wow – does this thing have six cylinders?” A few men with their wives or girl friends in tow came up to me while I was unpacking in front of the Nugget and asked about the bike and my trip. I will say the room at the Nugget was worth every dime of the $63 I paid for it. That still amazes me. For $10 more than I what I paid for the bare bones cabins I’d been staying in I was in this huge plush room.
I ironed a shirt and wandered down to the casino. I had gave myself a budget for what I was willing to lose for the entertainment. When I did this, I accounted for the $130.00 the guy at the Triumph dealer said he thought it would take to replace my back brakes.

I can play Black Jack. I understand all the little rules for when to split and double down; when to hit and when to stay (for the most part). I rarely win though. I won big once a long time ago, but since then I’ve probably lost twice as much as I won all those years ago. I decided, for me, the way to win at Black Jack in a casino is to treat it as entertainment. I set a limit. I don’t take it seriously, and I don’t drink a lot.

When I pick a Black Jack table I always chose a $10 or $15 table. I want to have fun. I don’t want the guy next to me getting pissed off if I hit at the wrong spot or do something stupid like split kings. I look for a witty dealer who enjoys helping, and a crowded table full of loose players who are not stressed out over every misplay. I never sit at a table alone or with just one other player, and I always act like it’s my first time playing.

The first table I sat at wasn’t fun at all. It only cost me $50 to figure that out. The second table was much better. I played for hours and had a blast. At one time I’m sure I was up several hundred dollars, but, story of my life, I did not walk away. Things didn’t turn out too bad though. I wound up losing $26.00 (I was using $1 chips for drink tips and dealer bets). I played for hours, drank a little, and had fun for about what it costs to go bowling.

Things didn’t go so well the next day. My plans were simple. I was going to find a Golds Gym and work out then take my bike to have the brake’s checked. I left the hotel at 7:30am with what I thought were good directions to the Golds Gym. I rode up and down Sahara avenue looking for the darn gym 45 minutes and never found it. I called the gym for directions a couple times, but the kid who answered the phone was no help. It turned out I was looking for 4420 West Sarah on East Sarah avenue. Apparently Sarah divides down town and the addresses start over going east or west.

I gave up and headed to the Triumph Dealer. I had passed it while I was looking for the gym so I knew right where that was. In fact, I could probably drive a cab in Vegas now.

The Triumph dealer in Vegas is a place called Pat Clark Motorsports. I cannot say enough good things about these people. They practically fell over themselves trying to help me. They even prepared a brand new awesome 2009 Bonneville (like my small bike) for me to use while they worked on the Rocket. I couldn’t wait to ride that little bike.

It was not to be. The mechanic took my bike for a ride. When he came back he told me he definitely felt the wobble and it wasn't safe (sigh). He put the bike on the lift. Fifteen minutes later he came and got me. “I got good news and bad news” he said. “The good news is the the brakes are fine, but the bad news is you need a new back tire.”

The tire had worn unevenly and was no longer balanced. The wobble I attributed to my front wheel was actually my back tire. Everyone at the dealership was shocked the tire had worn so quickly and oddly. The bike had only 5,000 miles on it. They scrambled and called Triumph to see if it would be covered under warranty. Triumph referred them to Bridgestone (tire maker). Bridgestone agreed to replace the tire, but it would take 3 days to get one. I’d spend 6 times the price of a tire in hotel bills (Labor Day weekend) and gambling.

The dealer sent me to a motorcycle tire shop around the corner to have a new tire put on. I never got a chance to ride that sweet little bike they prepared for me. The guys at the tires shop were great too. They had me on my way in 2 hours (it’s a big production to change the back tire on the Rocket). The tire cost me over $300 to replace (ouch).

My day at Vegas had been spent in repair shops instead of by the big pool at the Nugget as I had originally planned. It was already late when I finally pulled out of the tire shop, and to make matters worse I got lost leaving the city. It was after 2:00pm local time when I finally got on the right road for Hoover Dam.


Editorial:
Here’s some final comments about Vegas. They don’t call Vegas Sin City for nothing. First, I was disturbed by the number of young mothers and fathers I saw dragging their toddlers and babies through casinos and casino arcades after mid night. Second, I saw more homeless men than I had ever seen in any other city including San Francisco. Most people who visit Vegas fly in and take a nice car or shuttle to their hotel. They spend their time on the strip surrounded by money and glitz, and though they may encounter a few homeless while they are partying, they may never realize what they are seeing is the tip of the iceberg. Perched on the back of my bike, riding through back roads in the city, I saw countless homeless men wondering the streets – scary.

Zion

After I left Bryce National Park I continued south on route 89 toward Las Vegas. To get to Vegas I needed to take route 15 south. Zion National Park is conveniently located between route 89 and route 15 so I made for the park.

When I pulled into Zion National Park the heat was unbearable. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle without a helmet before, but I decided to try it in the park. I pulled over and strapped the helmet to the top of my left hard bag. My cooler is strapped to my right hard bag.

As I rolled through Zion helmetless I could hear every noise the bike made; usually the helmet masks all but the loudest sounds. The road through Zion proved to be more challenging than I realized. It climbed steeply up a thousand feet to the canyon rim and then descended through tight zigs and zags down to the canyon floor. As I entered the turns I broke with my back brake, and every time I did I heard a hissing sound that I feared meant I was grinding my calibers. I pulled over to see if I could tell how much material was left on the pads, but I could not get a good view. I continued on trying to use the back brake sparingly (tough for me because I have a bad habit of dragging the back brake into turns).

With the wobble and the back brake now playing on my mind, I continued through the park. I’ve run out of ways to describe awe-inspiring scenery in this blog and I have not even reached the Grand Canyon yet. The road through Zion is 13 miles long from the entrance on the 89 side to the exit on the route 15 (or Springdale) side.

About mid way through I went through a dark narrow tunnel that was nearly a mile long. It took a while for my eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dark tunnel. I drove the first 100 yards without being able to see a thing.

On the other side of the tunnel the road continued to wind through the park. Around each bend I discovered a new dramatic view of towering cliffs made of multicolored rock.

I can imagine some wondering if I had not grown board of looking at the scenery. After all, I have been through three canyon National Parks in two days (Arches, Red Rock, and Bryce). The truth is each of the parks is so different from the other that viewing one does not take away from viewing the other. Arches was very dry and hot with deep red colored rock formations that had been sculpted into gravity defying shapes. Red Rock looked like one of those wet sand sculptures made of fire red sand, and Bryce combined the best of Arches and Red Rock, but on a massive scale in a much cooler wilderness setting. They all had rocks, but they were all very different.

The road through Zion winds down to the canyon floor, but it does not run along the river that carved the scenery. The road that parallels the river is closed to general traffic. The views and trails on the river road really set Zion apart from the other canyon parks. To see them I had to leave the bike at the visitor center and take a park shuttle.

The shuttle system at Zion is excellent. The shuttles run every 6 minutes in both directions along the river road. There are 8 or 9 stops. At every stop there are scenic views or trails to scenic views. Some of the trails are long and challenging.

It was a little after eleven when I reached the visitor center. Zion is about a 2 hour ride from Vegas. I decided I’d kill a couple hours in the park and plan to reach Vegas by 3 or 4 (I did not realize how incredibility stupid this plan was until later).

I hopped on the shuttle and got off at the first couple of stops to take pictures. At the 5th stop I discovered a trail leading to a place high above the canyon floor called Angel’s Point. I had seen a post card of the climb to Angel’s Point in the visitor’s center. It showed a line of people climbing a great zig zagging stair up the side of a steep cliff. The trail is over 2 miles long. I wanted to see the stair.

As I climbed the trail, I looked back down at the canyon floor and the river. The view reminded me of Yosemite. I used to think Yosemite was the most beautiful place on earth; I still believe that, but I’m a little more open minded there may be other contenders.

I had hiked about a half mile along the trail when for some reason I checked for my keys. Sure enough, they were missing. I frantically checked all my pockets. I had lost the bike keys. I didn’t panic at first. I had a spare hidden on the bike. I still wanted to see the stair. I contemplated continuing up the trail when it occurred to me I probably left the keys in the ignition. With the hike back to the shuttle station and the shuttle ride, I was at least 40 minutes away from the bike. The park was full of people. I wasn’t worried about anyone taking the bike; I was worried someone would open the locked hard bags and take their contents; including my laptop.
I rushed back down the trail and grabbed the next shuttle.

This is a view of the path I was on. You can see people on the path if you look.

The driver was exceedingly slow, and it was all I could do not to shout at him to speed it up. When we finally returned to the visitor center my stress turned to momentary panic when I could not find the bike. I was about to head into the center and report the bike stolen when I realized I was in the wrong parking area (they all look alike). I found my bike just where I’d left it with everything still secure in the hard bags. My keys were where I left them too; in the ignition.

I packed up and headed to Sin City.

Bryce

I left my campground at Moab at around 7:00am. After stopping briefly for coffee and fuel, I followed route 191 north to route 70. The landscape grew drier and more lunar in appearance, but it was not too hot. The sun was incredibly bright however. It was so bright that I could not tell I was wearing sun glasses.

Streets of Moab

Thirty miles west of where 191 intersects with route 70 I pulled into a town called Green River to fuel up and buy a pair of goggles with lenses as tinted as a welder’s mask. On my way out of town I saw a sign that said no services on route 70 for 106 miles. That’s the farthest stretch without gas I’ve seen so far. It hinted at how barren the landscape I was coming up on would be.

Just out of town I came upon a dramatic rock formation called the San Rafael Reef. Before this trip I had no idea the term reef could be applied to above water formations. The San Rafael Reef is an enormous barrier wall that cuts across the Utah desert for more than 20 miles. Until the mid 19th century travel from one side of the reef to the other meant either going around it or using one of the few (often secret) passes. In the 1950s a cut was made in the reef to allow a single lane of route 70 to pass through. This was later widened to the two lanes it is today.

The reef looks like a scene described in a J.R.R. Tolkien novel.

Beyond the reef is a great plateau known as the San Rafael Swell. Here the earth has been pushed up to form a great dome over 100 miles across and 8000 feet high. The top of the dome is a desert filled with unusual rock formations. Despite the distance, the ride across the swell passed quickly. The scenery was interesting and the air was much cooler than the brilliant sun and barren landscape would suggest.

I stopped at multiple view points to explore and take pictures. During one of my stops I ran into another rider with a bike more fully loaded than mine. He, like me, was riding cross country. I never got his name, but I ran into him several times during the long day.

I descended down from the swell and fueled at a town called Salina. Outside of Salina the landscape began to change again. Soon the mountains that were barren and gray grew greener until by the time I reached route 89 south I was surrounded by deep green fields and sage colored hills not unlike what I remember seeing in the California Sierras.

I followed route 89 for 50 or 60 miles passing through numerous small farming towns that again reminded me of Northern California or even Pine Island New York. The road parallels a river and large reservoir. I remember driving through a town in western Colorado and seeing a sign that said “in the west water is life”. Nowhere is that more apparent than the desert.

I made a fuel stop at one small town only to discover my American Express card was declined. I’ve had this happen to me before. Amex monitors spending patterns and flags cards when the patterns look suspicious. I had to call American Express and explain all the small fuel charges across the country were indeed from me. The person I spoke to was nice and assured me the card would work going forward (it was denied again in Las Vegas…)

When I pulled out of the small town, much to my dismay, I felt a wobbling in my handle bars at low speeds. With a little experimentation, I narrowed the speed range when the wobble ocurs to between 20 and 30 miles per hour; no wobble below or above. The wobble really stressed me out. I immediately called the Triumph dealership in Las Vegas and made an appointment. I doubt my front wheel will fall off or anything, but I don’t want to find out at highway speeds or in some sun blasted lunar wasteland.

What's causing the wobble?

With the wobble weighing heavy on my mind, I continued my ride down to Bryce Canyon. I had never heard of Bryce Canyon before I started planning this trip. I didn’t know what to expect there, and I had contemplated skipping it. If there’s one thing I’ve learned on this trip, however, it is good things are often down the less direct road (is that Frost?). Bryce was no exception. What an awesome place.

I entered Bryce Canyon through Red Canyon National Park. Red Canyon is a hiking park. There are no roads for touring. I stopped at a trail head and took a few pictures, but I decided not to go to deep into the canyon.

Bryce, on the other hand, has an awesome network of roads that allow you access to the spectacular viewing platforms and pathways. After paying my entrance fee, I rode out to a place called Rainbow Point. This is the highest and farthest out view point in the park.

I stopped at every viewpoint along the canyon rim. At one place there were two large crows or Ravens (Ravens sounds neater) perched together on a guard rail post. They were completely unperturbed by the presence of humans. They just sat on the post and watched us watch them. They were eerily contemplative and Poe’s poem came to mind.

Who's that rapting at my cabin door...

After I left the Ravens, I rode out to a place called Inspiration point. The viewing platform at Inspiration point reminded me of a similar spot at Rock City on Lookout Mountain in Tennessee. Of course, the view is a little different.

When I was leaving Inspiration Point, I ran into the same solo motorcycle rider I had met at various stops on route 70. We compared notes. I told him about my wobble, and he said he was experiencing the same thing in the same speed range; that seemed weird, but somehow comforting. The only thing I can figure, is the roads have somehow changed the shape of our tires.

I did a lot of hiking in Bryce that afternoon and the next morning. Bryce is amazing. It is famous for its unique rock towers called hoodoos. Having learned my lesson about riding in the deep darkness, I decided not to stay for sunset. It was a hard decision. Everyone in the visitor center was talking about how great the stargazing is at Bryce, and I’m sorry I missed it.

It took me a while to find my campground. I get lost more than any man I know. One of these days I’m going to break down and by a GPS. Of course, then I’ll miss the thrill of nearly dumping the bike while making u-turns in gravel driveways. I finally found it with plenty of sunlight to spare.

Once again I was impressed by the KOA campground I stayed at. The couple managing the site were great, and the facilities were great too. I even went swimming; something I rarely do in my pool. The pool was cold and filled with German tourist who seemed unaffected by the chilly waters. I growing increasingly convinced that KOA is the best kept secret of the retiree sect.

The next morning I rode back to Bryce early to see the sunrise. The place was full of people doing the same thing. There were hikers, RVs, rabbits, and deer everywhere. The light show created by the rising sun illuminating the hoodoos, cliffs, and arches was breathtaking.

I spent the morning hiking down to the canyon floor. My decision to leave my motorcycle boots at home in favor of a pair of Timberlines (that actually belong to my son) is proving very wise.
After I left Bryce I followed route 89 down to Zion National Park which is another truly amazing place. There I had a couple of adventures including discovering, during a particularly steep descent down a canyon road, that my back brakes are worn out and then losing my keys on a hiking path; but that’s for another blog entry.

Arches

Arches National Park is 2 miles north Moab on route 191 and 6 miles north of the camp ground I stayed in. As the name implies, the park’s claim to fame are its numerous arch rock formations. I must have heard from a dozen people on my way to Utah that I must see Arches. I had barely unpacked the motorcycle when I discovered my neighbors were riding to the park. I decided to tag along.

Sam and Guy were ready to leave when I arrived. I tried my best not to hold them up, but when I got on my bike to follow them, I discovered I had, once again, nosed the bike down a slight dip when I parked and I had to wrestle with it for several minutes before I could get it out. I’m sure I looked pretty comical to these Goldwing owners (both Sam and Guy had identical 2003 blue Goldwings) because Goldwings have reverse!!! I never understood why that was good until now; now I really understand. They waited patiently for the five minutes it took for me to finagle the bike out its parking spot.

We got to the park around 6:00pm. Guy and Sam were in a rush. Their plan was to wiz through the park and then dash on over to another park to watch the sunset. They had been told the best place to see sunset in Utah was Dead Horse Point National Park which was about 30 miles away from arches. Sunsets are a big event in these parks. Rock formations that are dull and washed out during the bright day turn amazingly colorful at sunset and sunrise. I’m told people clap at the Grand Canyon after sunsets.

I wanted to stop and take pictures. My new friends tried to accommodate me, but our goals in the park were different so we agreed to separate.

Everything I was told about Arches was true. It is a spectacular place, and you can see a lot of it from your bike / car. There’s a problem, however, you cannot see many actual arches from the roadway. To see an Arch up close, you have get off your bike (or get out of your car) and hike.

The Utah licenses plate has a picture of an arch from the park on it. I set out to find that arch. It turns out it’s called Delicate Arch, and it’s only accessible two ways. One way is to take a 1.5 mile hike to the arch itself. I wanted to do that, but the parking lot for the trail head was full. The other way to see the arch is to take a .5 mile hike to cliff that provides a view of the arch; that’s what I ended up doing.

I reached the place to see the arch a few minutes before sunset. The trail to the viewing area lead up to an exposed cliff with shear drops in excess of 200 feet. There’s nothing up there to protect you from yourself. Anyone stupid enough to get too close to the edge could find themselves on the canyon floor real quick.

At sunset, as advertised, the cliffs and rock formations look like they catch fire. All the dull washed out colors change into bright reds, oranges, whites, and greens. I watched the whole show and found myself still in the park after dark, and the key word there is dark. There is no light pollution out here. Dark is dark.

I remembered the numerous blind curves and deer crossing signs I encountered on my way in as I started the bike and slowly drove the 15 miles back to the park entrance. I lead a parade of cars at least 30 long. I’m sure they wanted me to go faster, but I knew hitting a deer on the bike meant nothing but hospitalization and an expensive airline ticket home. So I drove the speed limit and frustrated a bunch of people.

One more thing about how dark it is out here. It’s actually wonderful (if you’re not trying to navigate a motorcycle through winding turns in a national park filled with wildlife). Absent the ambient light from large cities and highways, the night sky out here is incredible. It’s like how I remember it as a boy in Pennsylvania. The sky is full of thousands of bright stars and you can see the Milky Way!! It’s been more than 20 years since I’ve seen the Milky Way.

I’m running a day behind on my blog entries now. I spent the today riding from Moab to Bryce Canyon (280 miles). I rode through blazing desert and lush green valleys surrounded by enormous green mountains that reminded me of Northern California and the Sierras. At the end I toured Red Rock and Bryce Canyons. Both were amazing, but I can’t write anymore tonight. Stay tuned because I still have to tell you about the wobble the bike has developed and tomorrow I go to Vegas baby!

Down to Utah

I gave Idaho Springs short shrift in my last post. Here's a picture. It's a nice litte place.

Farewell to Idaho Springs,,,

The common room in the Miner's Pick... I had this to myself...




My room...


I woke this morning to the smell of something good cooking. My host had arrived sometime during the evening and as promised she was cooking me breakfast. I showered and went down to meet her. She turned out to be an attractive woman in her late thirties (my guess). Her name was Vicki.

She was busy cooking so I packed up the bike. Breakfast was a baked omelet and hash browns. It was delicious. We talked while I ate. She told me the cyclist I saw on Mount Evans were probably training for the annual Mount Evans race. Apparently they race up and down that mountain every year. I’m still amazed.

Packing up outside the Miner's Pick - Bike au naturale

When Vicki heard my destination for today was Moab Utah she told me it was a real neat little town, and she said when I get there, I should make sure I drive through Arches National Park. I heard the same thing repeated to me during a few fuel stops when I told people where I was headed.

After breakfast I said good bye and headed back out on route 70 which would take me over the Rockies and into Utah. As you can imagine, Route 70 is very scenic. It threads its way through the Rockies (sometimes under them) and passes near or through many of the major ski resorts.

I was struck by the number of dead trees. Whole mountain sides are covered with rust colored dead pines. It appears, and some Internet research confirms, that the entire pine forest in the Rockies is dieing. The pine beetles are killing it. The whole forest from Canada down to New Mexico is infested with Pine Beetles. Apparently there are many factors contributing to the beetle epidemic, but it seems to come down to two main ones: climate change and fire prevention. Whatever is happening, it’s alarming.

Just past Vail the scenery began to change quickly. The trees began to disappear entirely – not because of beetles; because of the transition of climate zones. By the time I was 50 miles west of Vail the tall pines had given way to small scrub pines and grasses. In another 50 miles, I was in the desert.

Route 70 parallels the Colorado River for many miles. It’s odd to consider this small river that in most of the places I’ve seen looks no mightier than our Chattahoochee is responsible for so much of the dramatic canyon landscapes out here. I guess it all comes down to just soft rock, time, and water.

The first evidence of the river’s erosive power I got to see was at a place called Glenwood Canyon. Route 70 runs right through this dramatic canyon about 125 miles from the Utah border. Here the river has cut a deep channel in the rocks forming tall box like rock formations. The canyon is about 8 miles long. It was my first exposure to this kind of scenery. After I passed through it, I turned around and went through it again. I stopped at the two rest areas in the canyon and hiked along the bike trails to get some photos.

After I crossed into Utah, I began looking for a route off the interstate described in the same map book that had led me to Mount Evans. The route is Utah 128 from where it intersects route 70 at ext 204 until it reaches the town of Moab about 45 miles west.

The map book was vague on what I would see on this route which troubled me because it was also vague on the fear factor of the Mount Evans road. The book just lists it as one of the best rides in America with lots of twists and turns and diverse scenery. Throwing caution to the wind I exited the highway and had the best riding experience I’ve had yet. Nothing had prepared me for the scenery along this route. It was amazing everywhere I looked I saw incredible mountain vistas, huge red rock formations and beautiful green ranches (kept green by constant irrigations). I stopped so many times to take pictures that I stopped putting the camera away and just left it around my neck.

Route 128 emerges from the incredible landscape just outside of the town of Moab. This place is like ground zero for canyon tourism. It’s a cool little town that reminds me of a beach town (without the beach) or a ski town (without the snow). There are neat little shops and restaurants everywhere. Everyplace you look there’s businesses offering ATV and Jeep rentals or river rafting tours. The streets are clogged with RVs and European travelers.

Apparently this area is very popular with the Europeans who are enjoying the US half off sale. Normally when I cannot understand the conversations around me it’s because they are in Spanish. Here German appears to be the prevalent language.

I’m staying in a KOA camp ground 4 miles outside of town. So far my experiences with KAO’s have been great. The facilities have all been clean and well maintained. Everyone from the staffs to the other campers have been exceptionally nice.

When I pulled into my cabin, I saw two big blue Honda Goldwings parked in the cabin next to me. As I was unloading the bike I struck up a conversation with one of the owners. It turns out the bikes are owned by two guys from the Carolinas – Guy from South Carolina and Sam from North Carolina. They are retirees out exploring America. They had spent the last 16 days riding through the Dakotas, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and now Utah. They said they were heading back though because it was too hot out here. The road temperatures today were well above 100.

Guy and Sam were headed out for a ride through Arch’s Park. I asked if I could follow them. It was awesome. I’m just too exhausted to write anymore. My exploits in Arch’s park will be in my next blog entry.

Rocky Mountain High

During my dash to Denver last night I realized route 70 near Denver is probably a real mess during rush hour. I decided I did not want to find out for sure. I set my alarm for 4:00am so I could get on the road by 5 and pass through Denver no later than 6. Things worked out according to plan and by 6:00am I was following route 70 on an unimaginably steep climb out of the Denver area. West of Denver route 70 shoots up from 5000 feet to what must be 8000 feet in a few short miles. The ride felt like take off in a jet.

Looking back at the sunrise over Denver after the climb out.

My second goal on this trip was to take the scenic ride up Mount Evans. I read about the ride in a map book I bought that lists the top motorcycle rides in North America. When I planned the trip, I scheduled an extra day in Colorado to allow me to make the ride.

I reached the town of Idaho Springs at a little after 7:00am and had breakfast at the local McDonalds. Idaho Springs is a small touristy town about 40 miles west of Denver. The town’s roots are in the Colorado Gold Rush and like Dahlonega back home they’ve leveraged that history along with skiing and river recreation to draw in tourists. The main strip boasts 20 or so little shops. I don’t want to sound too jaded, but it’s the same rejuvination formula I’ve seen played out in towns everywhere. Little restaurants, candle, fudge, and art shops cling to existence. Vacant shops dot the street marking those that lost the economic battle.

I was interested in Idaho Springs because the road up Mount Evans begins there. The road has the distinction of being the highest paved road in North America reaching a height of 14,130 feet. Even the road up Pike’s Peak does not climb as high. It’s worth noting here that aircraft generally require oxygen above 10,000 feet. After I finished my breakfast I rolled through town and found the road almost by accident.

The road to the top of Mount Evans is 28 miles long. It starts out very tame. It meanders along for 14 miles with turns and inclines no more severe than those in the Georgia Mountains. Of course, the highest Georgia Mountain is 4,600 feet (Brasstown Bald) and the Mount Evans road starts well above 7000 feet.

At the end of the first 14 mile section the road has climbed to 10,000 feet and there is a pristine mountain lake called Echo Lake, a souvenir stand (of course), and a ranger’s station. There’s a big sign here that says Motorcycle Riders should use Extreme Caution. This is where you should turn back if you have any doubts of your ability to navigate an 800 pound motorcycle along a narrow road with 90 degree turns on a steep (and I mean steep) upgrade with no guard rails or shoulders.

To understand how scary this road is you need to understand a few things about motorcycles and heavy motorcycles in particular. Motorcycles are incredibly stable at speed. Think about it; how many people fall over on bicycles once they are moving; not too many. The wheels act as gyros (when they are turning) and provide stability. This is why motorcycles can lean so far into turns and never fall over. This all falls apart however when bikes go slow. Like airplanes, motorcycles are clumsy at low speed. This is why most motorcycle accidents occur in parking lots.


You can’t go fast on the Mount Evans road; not for long anyways. I rarely took the bike out of first gear for the climb from 12,000 feet to 14,000 feet. My speed hovered around 15 miles per hour and I had to take some pretty nasty turns, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is knowing you can’t stop and turn around. The road is too steep and too narrow. If I let the bike stop, and believe me the thought crossed my mind more than once, I would have been stuck. The bike is way too heavy to push around. I imagined myself paralyzed in the middle of the road.


Somewhere around 11,000 feet the trees disappear. It’s like climbing through a cold windswept desert that you could fall off of at any second and die a horrible death. Along the way I passed mountain goats and small ground hog like animals that I guessed to be prairie dogs.

I was not alone. There were several cars on the route with me. I didn’t see my first motorcycle until I reached the top. Yes I reached the top. I am extremely thankful I took that motorcycle training course, and that I practice controlling the bike at slow speeds in parking lots. I cannot imagine attempting this ride on a big bike without the training or practice. I think you would die.



Yep; those are cyclist (bicyclist) going up the road. If you ever get into a confrontation with one of these guys (or gals), walk away. Anyone who can pedal up this hill (remember no air) can kick you butt. I don't care how tough you think you are.


I felt a little out of it at the top. I walked around the summit in a daze and took some pictures. I spoke to a few other riders (all of them on smaller bikes). They assured me the ride down was easier. Despite the assurances of the other riders, I was genuinely worried I would dump the bike on the way down, but I was beginning not to care. Everything was kind of fluffy and funny. There’s another word for a Rocky Mountain High, it’s called Hypoxia. I knew I was in trouble when I went to leave and I could not remember which side of the road I should be on – I’m serious.
It turns out the other riders were right. The ride down was easier. I kept the bike in the lower two gears, and kept my hands off the front brake. The front brake on a bike at low speed is good for one thing – falling. It’s like the gravity engage switch. You pull it at slow speeds and the bike falls over.

I had selected the right clothes for the trip. I had dressed in layers and though it was cold, I was not uncomfortable during my ascent. I was cold at the summit. I was actually shaking, but that could have been fear. This is good because the high country around the southern rim of the Grand Canyon is notoriously cold. I shed some of the layers as I descended.

I stopped often on the way down. I had less fear about getting the bike going the right direction going down. That would happen with or without me. I took about 150 pictures. I went on a small hike. I could not believe how hard a relatively simple hike was at those altitudes. I finally made it down and back to Idaho Springs by 1:00pm.

In case you're wondering about the white stuff in the photo. It's snow. There was lots of it, but all on the side of the road (it's August).

When I planned the trip I booked a room in a little B&B called the Miner’s Pick. I don’t know why. I think I realized after four days of solo riding I would crave some human contact and a shower that I did not need to wear shoes to walk to. I imagined I would run into a few guests in the common area or at breakfast. At the very least, I would have the owner to talk to.


When I reached the B&B, I found a note on the door. It said I was the only guest and the owner would be gone all night. I had the place to myself. There were instructions on how to lock the door at night and a promise of breakfast in the morning. So much for human contact….

High Plains Drifting

There are a lot of bikers on the road. Believe it or not; there’s a lot of guys doing the same thing I’m doing (solo cross countries and camping). Maybe this is the new thing to do when you reach middle age; jump on a bike and go cross country.


Besides the independent near-do-wells like myself, there appears to be two great biker migrations going on this week. Harley guys from all over North America are making their way to Milwaukee for the Harley 105 year anniversary. I’m running into bands of them everywhere making the track to Wisconsin. It’s like some irresistible hog call has gone out and thousands of them are responding.


The other group of bikers- on-the-move are beamers. There’s a big BMW Rally in Salt Lake City Utah. I’m seeing KT1200’s everywhere. I ran into one couple at the camp site who pulled a popup tent trailer with theirs. They pulled in and poof they had an instant camp setup in minutes.




I met another KT1200 owner heading to the same rally. He was camping alone like me. We talked for a bit. He has a Triumph too. He told me this was his second cross country trip this year. In June he road another bike to Puget Bay Alaska (and he was disappointed half the roads were paved).


It rained hard last night. Luckily, I thought it might, and I made sure the roof flap of the tent was closed before I went to sleep. The tent kept me dry and I slept through most of the thunder and lightning. It was still coming down when I woke up. I put on my rain gear and broke camp in the rain.

I did not want to ride in the rain. I hovered around the camp ground for an hour waiting for the rain to stop, but there was no sign that it would so I headed out. The storm stretched for over 100 miles. I was pelted by heavy rain and buffeted by strong wind. Every now and again lightning bolts would leap from cloud to cloud. As bad as it was, I’m pretty sure it was tame by prairie thunderstorm standards.


The hardest part about riding in the storm was keeping control of the bike when the semis past me. I kept my speed down to about 60. I couldn’t see all that well out of the face mask and I was worried about hitting a deep puddle and hydro planing off the road. Luckily the road is straight as an arrow for hundreds of miles. In my mirror could see the semis approach, and I would brace myself – inching the bike to the right side of the road. They’d wiz by pushing a wall of wind and rain that enveloped me and the bike. As they passed, and for a few moments after, I could not see a thing. I just hung on and tried to keep the bike straight.


I passed hundreds of giant windmills. It was raining too hard to stop and take pictures. The strong wind had many of them turning faster than I’d ever seen the big ones turn.

The world may not be flat, but large parts of Kansas sure are...

I broke out of the rain in a place called Hays Kansas where I stopped to grab breakfast. It was cold. I had to dig out a sweater. After I warmed up, I jumped back on the bike and sped toward Colorado. After a few minutes, the guy on the KT1200 who I spoke to the night before passed me. I followed him for 150 miles across the Great Plains of Kansas and into Colorado. Another guy joined in our little cat and mouse game and the three of us hurdled up into the high plains at 90 miles per hour.

I picked up another hour today when I crossed into Mountain Time. I arrived at my campground in Strasburg early. It was only three. I checked in and headed to my site to pitch my tent. When I got there I discovered my neighbors had several dogs that barked and growled every time I moved. One big black one nearly got me. They had an elaborate tent setup and I got the impression they had been camping there for a while. The dogs had crapped all over my site. I decided to trade my tent in for a cabin away from the dogs and perma-campers.



After I got situated in my cabin, I realized I had rode 500 miles today, and I had not seen the Rockies. I had imagined them covering Colorado. I thought I’d cross from the flat plains of Kansas right into the mountains. Before today, I did not know there are 200 miles of high plains that rise out of the prairie to over a mile high (hence the name mile-high city) before the mountains even begin. It was still early. I decided to ride to Denver and see the mountains.

On my way to Denver I spotted two large thunderstorms on either side of me. The flat open plains make it possible to see these storms clearly from miles away. I kept my eyes on them and continued to race toward Denver. Just when I spotted the Rockies (and the Denver Skyline), I realized one of the storms was closing in fast, and it looked severe. I had all I could take of riding in the rain for one day, and the thought of doing it in city traffic was not appealing. I turned the bike around and raced back toward the campground.

That’s when I noticed the other storm had made a flanking move and was threatening to cut off my retreat. I rolled on power and sped back. The storm was building on my right, and it was like nothing I had ever seen before. I knew I was in trouble when the sky turned that eerie green color.

I was four miles from the campground when I noticed cars pulled over and people out watching the storm. Out in the fields, under the black and green sky, I could see a big cloud of dust. The dust was turning and it rose into a tall brown column. Viola – my first Tornado (as viewed from the back of speeding motorcycle). It wasn’t a big tornado, but it was a tornado!!!

For all you meteorologists out there, this is not the tornado, it's a picture of the storm dissipating. I contemplated stopping to take a picture of the tornado, but fear trumped compelling blog photo.