Colorado Part 3: from

Early on, I called it: six people in a riding group is bad luck. It had netted us speeding tickets on the way out to Colorado, so I was a bit leery of joining a group of five for another long distance leg of the trip, and not without reason, as I was soon to discover. That said, I could not have asked for a nicer, better-spirited, or more-prepared group to enjoy repeated breakdowns with than the ZKMC. Looking back at the pictures, I'm nothing if not amazed at how much we managed to fit into such a short span of time.

Shortly after our departure from Buena Vista, we hit Independence Pass, which we dubbed "the pterodactyl" due to its appearance on the map. Having spent a lot of time riding in the mountains of Tennessee, this was right in my wheelhouse, but apparently the steep dropoffs and uneven pavement in hairpin turns were unnerving to some of the rest of the group.




Much to my surprise, the ZKs had very little (if any) system behind their riding order, and would often and randomly outrun the group or stop to take pictures. Everyone took everything at their own pace. This caused some delays and the occasional mass-confusion, but no one seemed to get annoyed, even after long days of riding that were just made longer due to the screwup. Very weird, but entirely refreshing to my east coast sensibilities.


The top of Independence Pass:




Note the snow. Two stops later, we were in this (note the temperature on the far left):



... which was handled thusly:




Fifty mile rest breaks were in order, just to cool down. I introduced them to the idea of soaking your shirt and filling your helmet with water just prior to departure, which led to weird lines in the bathroom of our next few rest stops. They introduced me to the idea of lingering in shade whenever possible, including on the bike when passing trucks. Good all around. When the sun got low in the sky, we also started with the DIY electrical tape sun visors. Most of us put them on our face shields. Andrew put his on his sunglasses. He also rode a DR650 3100 (?) miles and lives on a vintage yacht he's restoring, because it's cheaper than renting an apartment. Style is arguable, but the man certainly has balls.




By evening, the heat had broken and we were in Utah (by the way, fuck Utah), where Jenna's bike broke down. Unfortunately, the whole not-riding-in-a-group thing meant a serious backtrack and perhaps some riding the wrong way on the interstate for a minute so as not to have to go to the next exit. In most places, that's an entirely unreasonable thing to do. In Utah (fuck Utah), not so much, because there's little traffic and the exits are 20 miles apart. Fortunately, all the waiting during the attempted fix, both roadside and at the truck stop, gave plenty of chance to take pictures.








Thinking (hoping) it was a clogged fuel filter, we replaced that and, with the campground 120 miles away, proceeded into the night. We got about 40 before Jenna broke down again with the same problem, at which point we did a complete air/fuel/spark diagnosis and returned to a problem with the fuel.




At that point we'd been on the road for fourteen hours, so our diagnostic skills were not so hot, and we missed the also-clogged petcock. A simple switch to the reserve fuel line would solve that in the morning, but for the night, we made our way to a motel.




I set up my tent for good measure.




The next day, we loaded up, splitting up the luggage on Jenna's bike to allow easy access to anything that might need repair in case our diagnosis was wrong. This ended up making my bike's pile of luggage taller than me, much to the amusement of everyone else involved.




Continuing his fashion statement, Andrew also added a pink do-rag to the ensemble. This got at least one double-take from a Hell's Angel.




We then rode through the special brand of hell that is Salt Lake City and everything around it (fuck Utah). Stifling heat (fuck Utah). Road construction (fuck Utah). Cops pacing up (fuck Utah). Myraid billboards for liposuction and god knows what all else (fuck Utah). We finally found an absolutely beautiful state park on a bay off the Great Salt Lake, only to have some ass hat ruining it by running a mosquito-sounding RC boat around right next to where we were sitting (fuck Utah). I finally was prompted (well- considering the circumstances- practically forced) to further decorate my helmet:




Once the boat ran out of gas, the park was actually quite lovely, and would have been great had it been located in any other state. The need to travel between points within led to some interesting motorcycle gear choices as well.






Finally, we left Utah (fu... well, you know) for Idaho, and everything got better. We were riding in two groups of three, and the back group missed the exit, forcing an extra half-hour or so of waiting and/or backtracking. This put us through the Curfew National Grasslands right before sunset and right after a huge thunderhead had moved through. Wide-open, deserted roads. Beautiful clouds and colors. Absolutely surreal.

(I'm just going to link a huge pile of pictures now, because I don't know how else to explain.)




























Pictures barely get it across. Barely at best.





Also, bugs in Idaho come in four (internal) colors: red, yellow, orange, and green. I seem to have collected them all.




At the next gas stop, we fixed Jenna's rear brake lever, which was missing one of its bolts.




After that, we made our way through Idaho and into the front of another serious thunderstorm. No rain, but plenty of wind, dust blowing across the road, and the like made riding sketchy at best. Throw in the dark and that we were in a construction zone that was down to one lane with oncoming traffic in the other, and it was quickly time to call it a night. We found a fleabag motel that turned out to be hilariously bad. Fortunately, we opted for a nicer place, even if we could only get smoking rooms. We quickly downed whiskey and beer before realizing we hadn't had dinner. It gets fuzzy after that.

The next morning, everyone looked surprisingly fresh.






We stopped in Wendell, ID to take a picture for my dad, since he shares his name with the Hub City of Magic Valley. Quite a distinction, I'm sure.




From there, we picked our way across Idaho. Idaho is very big.



Also, apparently I'm now a part of the ZKMC.




We celebrated this with a long ride, then Mexican food, then me almost getting a ticket for a dead headlight, then Iko blowing a tire fifteen miles from where we were camping that night (also fifteen miles from anywhere else). Plug kit to the rescue!






Unfortunately, three CO2 cartridges managed to put all of about 10 PSI in it. After a serious amount of pumping with a tiny hand pump later, we managed 29 PSI, which was enough to get us (slowly, tentatively) to the campsite.






More pumping in the morning got the tire to 38 PSI.



Unfortunately, running at low speed with the high beams on had drained the Tuono's battery to the point that it wouldn't start after the first gas stop. Lovely. We tried bumping it. No dice. We tried jumping it through Battery Tender leads but just blew fuses. We finally procured a proper set of leads and got it going. Here's Nathan waiting during one of the early attempts.




Around the same time, Luke's tire started showing some steel.




One tire with a midnight, roadside plug. One tire worn to the belts. 280-something miles. Kids, this is not something you should try at home. Everyone made it though. Those of us who didn't have bad tires took Canyon Road out of Yakima at somewhat inadvisable speeds. Andrew got his windshield cleaned by a weird guy at a truck stop selling cleaning products while the rest of us stifled laughter. Coming over Snoqualmie Pass, everything got cooler and gray. Seattle came shortly thereafter. We ended up at the 9LB Hammer in Georgetown for a celebratory whiskey and beer, which promptly put me on my ass for the next couple of hours, since I hadn't eaten anything that day. Wives showed up and claimed Nathan and Luke. Jenna fended off "George from Georgetown". Iko, Andrew, and I just sat around looking shellshocked. It was a good trip.











At present, I'm in Seattle, ten days out from the last stop in Tennessee. 3400 and change miles on this leg of the trip, just shy of 5000 total. Been to 12,000 feet and to sea level. Gone very fast and very slow, cooked and frozen. Maybe 35 hours of sleep in nine days... maybe.

I think the PCH is next, visiting people along the way. Maybe I'll plan some of that tomorrow. Probably not. That's been working out well for me so far, but from here out it will be very different.

We'll see what happens.

Colorado Part 2: there

To perhaps speed things up if you just want to look at the pictures, here's the Flickr feed: http://www.flickr.com/photos/45538364@N02/sets/72157624255944275/

It has some pictures that I won't be putting here because, well, there are only so many pictures I feel like linking in any given post. That's also why the last post, which was supposed to be a complete "to, there, and from" ended up as only the "to" portion. This is the "there" portion. The "from" portion is forthcoming.

Moving on...

After fighting traffic through Denver and almost running out of gas (gas mileage was down almost 15 mpg due to serious headwind in Colorado), I finally made the DAG, where I found various UTMC drinking beer and repairing motorcycles. Tires, wheel spacers, carbs, countershaft seals... all were dealt with amidst the chaos. I believe most of an engine was rebuilt somewhere in there. Beer was swilled, meat was cooked, and I'm told much fun was had. I really don't remember. I was tired as all hell by that point.
















As you can see by the last picture, the motorcycle clusterfuck had reached epic proportions relatively early. It only got worse as the night wore on, with no few bikes rolling in well after dark. All told, just wow.


I woke up here the next morning (that's mine in the foreground center), among the Seattle crew I did not know at the time, but who I would end up accompanying northwest a few days later. We then ventured to obtain delicious breakfast burritos, and I remember being amazed at their collective caffeine addiction. The comment was made that I was "healthy" because I was drinking water, and then quickly retracted when I pointed to the half-pound of chorizo and eggs wrapped in a flour tortilla I was eating at the time.




This is my favorite morning-after-party-trashcan picture ever. Aluminum is aluminum, right?




Not too long thereafter, we got down to the business of getting to the campsite in Buena Vista. Reviewing the pictures, apparently I have a man-crush on Black Joe, because he's in no few of them:

Black Joe in a Colorado small town:



Black Joe carrying his chair on his wallet chain:



Black Joe reacting hilariously to disgusting meat products:




(Okay, so that's about it for Black Joe.)


For those who don't know, the reason for going to Colorado was a get-together of UTMC types called Ragnarok, which was allegedly my idea, though I quit having anything to do with it shortly thereafter. Having been there, I can't say I really regret that. I like most people individually and in small doses. This was not that. I liked the UTMC because it was such a non-club. I like DOOM (another UTMC get-together) because it's a non-event held by a non-club. Ragnarok definitely looked like a club event held by a club. Sooo not digging it.

Aside from taking some pictures and a handful of very decent conversations, I was pretty well done with it after the first few hours. So were Scotty, Business Dan, and Black Joe. On the morning of Day 2, I joined them for coffee in Leadville while they plotted their escape.





(Okay, so Business Dan is definitely more "wistfully looking" than plotting, but you get the idea.)

I also nearly froze to death on that trip. It was 40 degrees when we hit Leadville. I was wearing a summer jacket over a t-shirt, riding 70 mph. Reacquainted myself with my old friend, Mild Hypothermia. Hot chocolate has never tasted so good. I decreed that I wasn't leaving until it hit 60.

Amid planning, Scotty also decorated my helmet some more.




Upon return to camp, Delta Force packed up and hit the road, leaving me to fend for myself.






Pintgrudge wearing what has to be the least appropriate (on many levels) collection of motorcycle clothing I've ever seen (yes, that's a kilt), talking to Dozer, who's sporting an ice pack after dislocating a shoulder while trying to follow Mountain in the dirt. That sidehack Goldwing may be getting a diesel engine, and I may be the one putting it in, but that's a project for the future.




Beemer Dan (who was still a little loopy after overmedicating) and Ames (who was still wearing his Batman riding suit).




Also, here's a random picture of a motorcycle and another of a bunch of people standing/sitting around.






All in all, Ragnarok was very weird, and I spent much of my time there trying to escape it. Fortunately, Colorado is full of good roads, so that wasn't too difficult.


So the plan was to stay for the whole thing and then head for LA to see my brother, but when Iko (which I may be spelling incorrectly) asked me if I wanted to ride back to Seattle with the ZKMC, I jumped at the chance. After a brief delay finding my keys, we got away the next morning.




What happened from there is, again, another story for another day...