Cool Down Part Deux
Day 4
This day I decided to head in a different direction, like so many of my BMW brethren and sisteren. I joined the morning's swarm at a gas station just outside Paonia on 133S, heading towards Hotchkiss. As usual I was amazed by the variety of styles we BMW riders embrace. F, R, K. Denim, leather, cordura. Sport, Tour, G/S, Hack. All scattering like bees in search of pollen, to return to the hive swollen and drag assed tired at the end of the day looking for a kind caress from the queen. But I digress.
Out of Hotchkiss I rejoined 92 to Delta and then went north on 65 past the unremarkable towns of Orchard City and Cedaredge, just ho-humming along until 4 miles later when it became a series of switchbacks up to Grand Mesa. or Mesa Grande. Or Uperthingunmatwt which, on the Ute Indian tongue means, romantically, Land of the Departed but on my tongue sounds like I've burned it with too hot coffee. I took a moment at Crag Rest Park to enjoy the view to the south, looking out over Delta/Montrose in the Uncompahgre Basin. In my moments of reverie I became both host and lunch to hundreds (thousands?) of frantic mosquitoes trying, as all living things in this region, to make the most of the temperate months for feeding and reproduction before hibernation or death - a life style I find appealing in it's simplicity. Perhaps that explains the feeling I get at treeline and above: a sort of urgency to make the most of what is available for the brief time it is possible to do so. Around the mesa are numerous lakes with names like Deep Slough, Hotel (and Upper Hotel) Lake, Island Lake, Devil Lake, and such spotted with fishermen and fisher boats. While the inertia of my route took me further north on 65 to its juncture with 330, I should have explored east and back on the FR roads - FR123 in particular looks like the appetizing something on the menu you vow to try 'next time'. 123 appears to join FR121 which could take a rider north into Colbran by the back door, somehow changing into '50.00 road' (?) in the process. But then I'd have missed the big whoop-dee-do down hill curves on the north side of the Mesa.
330 travels in one direction - east to the town of Colbran. Large enough to support a gas station, burger joint (boasting service since 1988 - like it was a different century or something. Oh, wait....), and a nifty mid-town cultural section. Cultural Intersection, really. I mean it's basically a left turn with a coffee shop and small screen movie house, but that has to have SOME cultural value, right? It was at the gas station I measured the town's isolation -not on the universal telephone-scale of service/roaming/no service/open piles of burning garbage, but rather the Colorado Specific Scale of number of dogs in the bed of the truck. This was a 4 dog town (zero meaning urban or high speed driver no tailgate), with a small deduction for the dog in the cab not only being collared but of a recognizable pedigree small enough to be considered at risk from the 4 in the bed.
Beyond Colbran it seemed a long way back on dirt FR265, but only because it traversed so many different types of terrain - from church-camp-like woods to isolated hollows to pastures complete with cow herds and cow hands. Real cow hands; dirty and tired because they're still in the saddle working and haven't yet washed, not dude cow hands; dirty because they're so tired from the thought of work that they just don't care anymore. Lots of 4 wheelers, too, by the way. That seems to be the new menace in the area - folks who trailer up a, ah, trailer-load of the noisy bulbous tired beasts and then wreck havoc on the dirt roads; when dry by spewing clouds of dust which seek out every surface and orifice and when wet by creating oddly spaced ruts directing narrow motorcycle tires in the shortest direction towards the nearest drop-off or bog.
FR265 does find 133 again, north of Paonia, so after a few yards of slinging dirt and mud off the tires (and scaring the hell out of myself on the first curve for that reason) I returned for the end of Rally drawings and awards, BBQ dinner, long sets by the loudest band so far and continued great service by the American Legion at their temporary post by the beer tap.
Day 5
In case you are curious, there's no need to set an alarm for the last day of a rally, and you can sleep well with ear-plugs and still rise at an early hour. How? Why? Last night's efforts by the AmLegion and the need by some to be on the road early will ensure a non-stop banging of the port-o-let doors beginning before dawn. But that's as it should be; people have many miles to go, again, in every direction but the one directly home. Tent city rapidly returns to city park lawn, pock marked by ground cloths and temporary trails. HUGE tents and their accoutrements pack into incomprehensibly small packages which, in turn, get tucked into and strapped onto the nooks and crannies of hundreds of bikes. Hands are shaken, waists hugged, promises made, and the last pancake given out. It's time to go home, there's no more syrup.
I didn't intend to ride all the way back to the Springs in one day. After all, my kitchen pass was good for two more, but it seems once set in motion I would continue to roll back towards the u-store-it, the airport, and home. Ah, but first.....
Back up 133, through Somerset, to the Kebler Pass cut-off. My son John E. and I traveled this road on my R65 with street tires a few years ago - let's see how much different these Avon Gripsters feel. A lot, it turns out. Certainly the GS clearance and suspension help too, but I maintain a good old standard bike like the R65, or a /5, /6 or /7 should have no qualms about traveling dirt roads, here or in Mexico (see my article on Batopilas) in dry conditions. A less aggressive pace is required, surely, but the scenery and more direct routing will make up for a reduction in speed.
Through Crested Butte onto 135 south towards Gunnison I almost missed the aptly named Jake's Cabin Cut-off (less colorfully also called '8 Road') for Taylor River and Almont. FR742 follows the Gunnison River to the Taylor River, past Almont to Taylor Reservoir and by the looks of the map SHOULD be dirt, but is, in fact, smooth surfaced asphalt dipping and twisting along the water's edge. It is also heavily wooded, bounded by campsites, and sometimes clogged with campers and RV's, requiring a certain amount of restraint and a deliberate and delicate decision on when to flex your 2 wheeled muscle. That aside it is a BEAUTIFUL section of road for a vacationer - a destination in itself.
Past Taylor Reservoir is Cottonwood Pass Road which crosses to Buena Visa over, ah, Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126', and is graded dirt west of the pass and paved east of it. The pass itself is very similar to Independence Pass, just north of here on 82, and has deceptively simple looking hikes on either side of the road to solitary lookouts. Well worth the lung busting vision blurring blood oxygen depleting climb. In fact, take as long as you must, latch onto some frenetic pre-teen (if you can catch one as it goes by) to drag you, but don't miss the opportunity for unobstructed contemplation of the wondrous mountains around you.
Buena Vista is reality's slap in the face with traffic, gas stations, tour buses and fast food joints, but that's probably a good thing to wake you after the above euphoria. Here I joined 24 South and or East towards Colorado Springs, following a brother Harley Rider across the flats. Well, maybe an estranged brother with whom I've lost touch. In fact, I don't think we talk at all any more. Rolling into the Divide/Woodland Park area I offered my talisman to the rain god and don my gear, which appeases her and the heavy downpour becomes just a series of showery mists which stop as I arrive at the storage area.
In a rush to catch a flight I re-move, re-sort, and re-pack - while the cab searches for my location ("at the storage area? Like, IN a storage unit? What is this, a crank call?"). While checking in at the ticket counter and engaging in polite conversation with the agent suddenly the little voice in the back of my head screams out KEYS! YOU FORGOT YOUR CAR/HOUSE KEYS BACK AT THE U-STORE-IT!!!). A mere 35$ round-trip cab ride later (on top of the 15 + tip in the first place) and I'm finishing my chat and receiving my boarding pass. Still cheaper than riding home, buying a ticket, or paying for a locksmith (twice). Yes, I now leave spare keys hidden on the VW camper, just as on my bikes. No, I won't tell you where!
It was a grand time!
This day I decided to head in a different direction, like so many of my BMW brethren and sisteren. I joined the morning's swarm at a gas station just outside Paonia on 133S, heading towards Hotchkiss. As usual I was amazed by the variety of styles we BMW riders embrace. F, R, K. Denim, leather, cordura. Sport, Tour, G/S, Hack. All scattering like bees in search of pollen, to return to the hive swollen and drag assed tired at the end of the day looking for a kind caress from the queen. But I digress.
Out of Hotchkiss I rejoined 92 to Delta and then went north on 65 past the unremarkable towns of Orchard City and Cedaredge, just ho-humming along until 4 miles later when it became a series of switchbacks up to Grand Mesa. or Mesa Grande. Or Uperthingunmatwt which, on the Ute Indian tongue means, romantically, Land of the Departed but on my tongue sounds like I've burned it with too hot coffee. I took a moment at Crag Rest Park to enjoy the view to the south, looking out over Delta/Montrose in the Uncompahgre Basin. In my moments of reverie I became both host and lunch to hundreds (thousands?) of frantic mosquitoes trying, as all living things in this region, to make the most of the temperate months for feeding and reproduction before hibernation or death - a life style I find appealing in it's simplicity. Perhaps that explains the feeling I get at treeline and above: a sort of urgency to make the most of what is available for the brief time it is possible to do so. Around the mesa are numerous lakes with names like Deep Slough, Hotel (and Upper Hotel) Lake, Island Lake, Devil Lake, and such spotted with fishermen and fisher boats. While the inertia of my route took me further north on 65 to its juncture with 330, I should have explored east and back on the FR roads - FR123 in particular looks like the appetizing something on the menu you vow to try 'next time'. 123 appears to join FR121 which could take a rider north into Colbran by the back door, somehow changing into '50.00 road' (?) in the process. But then I'd have missed the big whoop-dee-do down hill curves on the north side of the Mesa.
330 travels in one direction - east to the town of Colbran. Large enough to support a gas station, burger joint (boasting service since 1988 - like it was a different century or something. Oh, wait....), and a nifty mid-town cultural section. Cultural Intersection, really. I mean it's basically a left turn with a coffee shop and small screen movie house, but that has to have SOME cultural value, right? It was at the gas station I measured the town's isolation -not on the universal telephone-scale of service/roaming/no service/open piles of burning garbage, but rather the Colorado Specific Scale of number of dogs in the bed of the truck. This was a 4 dog town (zero meaning urban or high speed driver no tailgate), with a small deduction for the dog in the cab not only being collared but of a recognizable pedigree small enough to be considered at risk from the 4 in the bed.
Beyond Colbran it seemed a long way back on dirt FR265, but only because it traversed so many different types of terrain - from church-camp-like woods to isolated hollows to pastures complete with cow herds and cow hands. Real cow hands; dirty and tired because they're still in the saddle working and haven't yet washed, not dude cow hands; dirty because they're so tired from the thought of work that they just don't care anymore. Lots of 4 wheelers, too, by the way. That seems to be the new menace in the area - folks who trailer up a, ah, trailer-load of the noisy bulbous tired beasts and then wreck havoc on the dirt roads; when dry by spewing clouds of dust which seek out every surface and orifice and when wet by creating oddly spaced ruts directing narrow motorcycle tires in the shortest direction towards the nearest drop-off or bog.
FR265 does find 133 again, north of Paonia, so after a few yards of slinging dirt and mud off the tires (and scaring the hell out of myself on the first curve for that reason) I returned for the end of Rally drawings and awards, BBQ dinner, long sets by the loudest band so far and continued great service by the American Legion at their temporary post by the beer tap.
Day 5
In case you are curious, there's no need to set an alarm for the last day of a rally, and you can sleep well with ear-plugs and still rise at an early hour. How? Why? Last night's efforts by the AmLegion and the need by some to be on the road early will ensure a non-stop banging of the port-o-let doors beginning before dawn. But that's as it should be; people have many miles to go, again, in every direction but the one directly home. Tent city rapidly returns to city park lawn, pock marked by ground cloths and temporary trails. HUGE tents and their accoutrements pack into incomprehensibly small packages which, in turn, get tucked into and strapped onto the nooks and crannies of hundreds of bikes. Hands are shaken, waists hugged, promises made, and the last pancake given out. It's time to go home, there's no more syrup.
I didn't intend to ride all the way back to the Springs in one day. After all, my kitchen pass was good for two more, but it seems once set in motion I would continue to roll back towards the u-store-it, the airport, and home. Ah, but first.....
Back up 133, through Somerset, to the Kebler Pass cut-off. My son John E. and I traveled this road on my R65 with street tires a few years ago - let's see how much different these Avon Gripsters feel. A lot, it turns out. Certainly the GS clearance and suspension help too, but I maintain a good old standard bike like the R65, or a /5, /6 or /7 should have no qualms about traveling dirt roads, here or in Mexico (see my article on Batopilas) in dry conditions. A less aggressive pace is required, surely, but the scenery and more direct routing will make up for a reduction in speed.
Through Crested Butte onto 135 south towards Gunnison I almost missed the aptly named Jake's Cabin Cut-off (less colorfully also called '8 Road') for Taylor River and Almont. FR742 follows the Gunnison River to the Taylor River, past Almont to Taylor Reservoir and by the looks of the map SHOULD be dirt, but is, in fact, smooth surfaced asphalt dipping and twisting along the water's edge. It is also heavily wooded, bounded by campsites, and sometimes clogged with campers and RV's, requiring a certain amount of restraint and a deliberate and delicate decision on when to flex your 2 wheeled muscle. That aside it is a BEAUTIFUL section of road for a vacationer - a destination in itself.
Past Taylor Reservoir is Cottonwood Pass Road which crosses to Buena Visa over, ah, Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126', and is graded dirt west of the pass and paved east of it. The pass itself is very similar to Independence Pass, just north of here on 82, and has deceptively simple looking hikes on either side of the road to solitary lookouts. Well worth the lung busting vision blurring blood oxygen depleting climb. In fact, take as long as you must, latch onto some frenetic pre-teen (if you can catch one as it goes by) to drag you, but don't miss the opportunity for unobstructed contemplation of the wondrous mountains around you.
Buena Vista is reality's slap in the face with traffic, gas stations, tour buses and fast food joints, but that's probably a good thing to wake you after the above euphoria. Here I joined 24 South and or East towards Colorado Springs, following a brother Harley Rider across the flats. Well, maybe an estranged brother with whom I've lost touch. In fact, I don't think we talk at all any more. Rolling into the Divide/Woodland Park area I offered my talisman to the rain god and don my gear, which appeases her and the heavy downpour becomes just a series of showery mists which stop as I arrive at the storage area.
In a rush to catch a flight I re-move, re-sort, and re-pack - while the cab searches for my location ("at the storage area? Like, IN a storage unit? What is this, a crank call?"). While checking in at the ticket counter and engaging in polite conversation with the agent suddenly the little voice in the back of my head screams out KEYS! YOU FORGOT YOUR CAR/HOUSE KEYS BACK AT THE U-STORE-IT!!!). A mere 35$ round-trip cab ride later (on top of the 15 + tip in the first place) and I'm finishing my chat and receiving my boarding pass. Still cheaper than riding home, buying a ticket, or paying for a locksmith (twice). Yes, I now leave spare keys hidden on the VW camper, just as on my bikes. No, I won't tell you where!
It was a grand time!
posted by Randy Masters at 10:12 AM
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