Paonia
Oh-dark-thirty
Wednesday morning
My `94 R1100RSA Beta Bike “Marlene” is loaded, ready and
waiting for our first ‘Big’ rally. I’ve been mapping alternate routes with
Microsnot’s Streets & Trips 2001 for a month or more and it’s finally time
to go.
West
out of Willow Park, Texas (about fifteen minutes west of Fort Worth) and pick
up Hwy 180 through Weatherford to Hwy 281 North. With the not-quite-bustling
metropolis of Weatherford in my mirrors, I’m already in the riding zone, miles
slipping by quickly in the darkness. As I begin the gentle climb into Palo
Pinto County, a discordant note enters my reverie – I missed 281! Hey, no big
problem, I’ll just keep going West `till I hit Hwy 283 then cut North up to Hwy
287.
Actually,
283 is a much more interesting ride than the rather mundane and utilitarian 281
as I alternate sweeping curves and throttle twisting straights while the new
day’s sun rises over my right shoulder. The dawn’s light enables me to see far
enough in this gently rolling country to make brief blasts into the
triple-digit zone a relatively safe pastime while regaining some of the travel
time lost to my inattention.
Riding
through Childress, TX at 10:30 am, I note that the bank thermometer already
reads 98 degrees. An hour later, the sign outside the bank in Claude reads 101!
Through
downtown Amarillo, I’m looking for a convenient fuel stop. Hey! I just ran out
of Amarillo. The odometer reads just over 160 miles and it’s just less than 50
miles to Dumas up in the panhandle. Since my bike regularly runs 220 miles
between stops, and I generally start looking for fuel around 200 miles, I
figure I’m in the window, barely. Remember those triple-digit blasts back on
283? I didn’t.
The
mile markers indicate three miles to Dumas when the bike stumbles. I’ve been
down this road before. (No, my bike doesn’t have the RID and the low fuel light
has been MIA since the last fuel filter change.) Since the divided four-lane is
clear of traffic, I start a series of double-lane-wide swoops that slosh the
last remaining fuel from the left side of the tank where it’s useless over to
the right side where it can do some good. She catches and climbs the last rise
into Dumas where I put 5.48 gallons of Texaco’s finest in my 5.5-gallon tank.
“Lord we do thank You for answered prayers.”
Headed
west and north out of Dumas through Dalhart and into New Mexico, I’m once again
thankful for the Vanson perforated jacket. Although the armor creates sweaty
patches where it blocks the wind, I’d rather have it and not need it than the
other way `round.
Although
I’ve got my Wally World tent and sleeping bag with me (I camp like once a year,
if that often) the debilitating heat indicates that a motel is a better choice
than a roadside park and I pull into a hostelry in Raton. I’m pleasantly tired,
somewhat sweaty and ready for a good night’s rest before the relatively short
jaunt to Paonia on Thursday. I also look forward to reliving old memories of
youthful summers spent working on my uncle’s ranch outside of Trinidad. Raton
pass always signaled both the beginning and the end of wonderful summers. I
look forward to riding it in the early morning’s light.
New Mexico Morning
I
woke well before dawn, showered and headed out to reload the bike. Immediately,
I returned to my room and put on a couple more shirts. After over a month of
Texas summer mornings, the 40-something temps at the base of the Raton
Mountains were a not unwelcome shock to the system. After a couple of cups
not-bad motel coffee, I was back in the saddle and headed north over the pass.
Descending into Colorado, 35-year-old memories flooded my soul and the words to
“Joy to the World” filled first my brain, then my helmet.
“Jeremiah was a bull frog
Was a good friend of mine
I never understood a single word he said
But I helped him a-drink his wine
And he always had some mighty fine wine
Singing
Joy to the world
All the boys and girls, now
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea
Joy to you and me.”
(Without permission but with great thanks to Three Dog Night)
After
wandering around the Trinidad area, I headed up to Walsenburg. It’s funny.
After six and a half days of ranch work, mostly fence repairs and toatin’ feed,
we’d knock off early on Saturday afternoon, get cleaned up and head up to
Walsenburg to rodeo. I featured myself as a bareback bronk rider at the time.
Later I took up motorcycle racing `cause the bikes weren’t “trying” to throw
me…
From
Pueblo, my Streets & Trips route took me over Monarch Pass to Gunnison then
up to Crested Butte. Having left the least amount of money possible in that
Tourist Mecca for a full tank of fuel at Ayatollah pleasing prices, I set out
on the last major stretch, County Road 12. One thing Streets & Trips didn’t
mention is that of the 30 off miles of CR-12, only the first and last half mile
are paved. I topped the first rise only to see that dreaded sign for all but GS
riders, “Pavement ends” right before a gravel strewn downhill run. Too late
now! As the short handlebared RS skittered through the gravel and over the
washboard, I kept telling myself to just relax.
“Relax.”
“You
can do this.”
“You
used to race dirt bikes.”
“I
said, RELAX!”
The
ends of the grips are NOT supposed to be bulging like that. Relax your hands!”
As
I topped the 9800’ Keebler Pass, I looked for cookies or elves. Seeing neither,
I coasted into the series of downhill dirt sweepers. It was actually starting
to be fun before the rain. And the guy practicing his World Rallye Championship
form in a sideways Subaru.
CR-12
ran into State Road 133 and I was within a handful of miles of Paonia. I added
one more “Thank You Lord!” to the litany I had been praying for the last 30-odd
miles and picked up 4th and 5th gear for the first time
in an hour or more.
Mid afternoon
Thursday at the park in Paonia
There
are a few vendors set up, several dozen tents scattered and clumped around the
grounds. Some road weary bikes and travelers parked along the central park road
alongside bikes that look as if a dealer used a Star Trek transporter to whisk
them spotlessly to the scene. All sorts of bikes. All sorts of riders. All
seemingly glad to be there. So am I.
I
strolled the grounds, stopped and warted Helen Twowheels for a while then rode
out to the high school to set up in the quiet camp. I’ve spent too many nights
at too many places listening to too many mediocre bands playing too loud, too
late. As I settle in, tent up and gear stashed, the sun is starting its
majestic decline behind the mountains in front of my tent. It’s time for a
whiskey!
Friday at the
Rally
Friday night I had one of
what passes for ‘flashes of brilliance’ in my life. Faced with the fact that I
had no cooler yet could not drink my favorite Jack Daniel’s without a bit of
ice, I bought a bag of ice regretting that I had no way to keep it frozen
overnight. I abhor waste and was disgruntled at the thought of tossing out 90
cents worth of my dollar bag. Just before I turned in, it occurred to me to fill
my camp coffee pot with ice. When I awoke before dawn even thought about making
a crack, all I had to do was fore up the single burner, set the pour the coffee
into the basket and place the battered tin pot on to perk. The tent smelled of
fresh French Roast before I’d finished my morning ablutions. A glorious way to
start a crisp mountain morning if you ask me.
Back
at Rally Central, the Colorado club had things well in hand. Near the
registration table was a stack of directions for a dozen or so self-guided
rides for both road and off-road fans. I chose two road rides and set out to
see the country. During my sight seeing
trip I remembered my small point-and-shoot camera, resting safely on the
kitchen counter back in Texas. Awed by the ocular overload, I stopped at one of
the small town stores to buy a disposable camera. Back on the road, I forced
myself to stop a few times for some photos of country never seen around home.
After and afternoon of glorious riding, I returned to rally central in Paonia
where I ran into Lonny from Austin. We’d met at a few events before and got
caught up on life since Da Blitz to Branson earlier this year.
After
visiting with Lonny I decided a cold one was in order and headed for the beer
stand. Reaching for my wallet, a wave of cold washed over me, seemingly
stopping my heart for a moment. My wallet was gone! Panic began to set in, my
mind turned to mush, various orifices either slammed shut or threatened to open
wide. I’m almost a thousand miles from home with no ID, no credit cards and
only about seven bucks and some change in my pocket. This could get truly ugly.
In Colorado, $7.00 will just about fill your tank… once.
When
my mind started functioning again, I figured that the most likely place to have
become separated from my wallet was at the store where I bought the camera.
Back on the bike, spend some of the cash for a little fuel and off I go.
Heart-felt prayers filled my helmet once again as I rode, well within any and
all speed limits, back to that store. I
had visions of being stopped by every LEO I saw. I had visions of spending
“quality time” in some of Colorado’s finest facilities until I could prove who
I am. I had visions of slinking through the campgrounds, asking total strangers
for a buck in hopes of sponging enough money for the trip home. (Had I known
that there were almost a thousand attendees, that plan might have been
profitable!).
As
I walked into the store and turned towards the ‘Customer Service’ counter, the
cheerful young lady there said, “I bet I know what you’re looking for!” A wave
of relief washed over 
me as I thanked my Gracious Lord and the honest employees at that
store. Back at the bike, I removed one credit card and a few twenties and
secreted them on the bike. Won’t help with the ID part, butt enough to at least
get me home.
Back
at the rally site, I settled in with a cold one to enjoy the passing parade.
Walking amongst the bikes, I noted more than a few RT’s and GS’s with enough
cockpit electronics to make targeting Baghdad a doable task. One anomaly, A
fellow with the latest from Aerostitch, a top-of-the-line Arai and sneakers
sans sox propped up on the highway pegs. To each their own and all that.
Wandering
through the main campground I was glad I had chosen to set up out at the high school. By late Friday it could only be
described as a zero-lot-line tent city. I was in search of Cissie Myrick, a
fellow Texan noted for, among other things, the Texas flag flying proudly above
her tent. Spotting the flag, I soon located her empty tent. A tent without
Cissie is just another tent, but a tent
full of Cissie is something else all together!
Bob
and TL Judy had their camp trailer set up in the Myrick estates, which also
accommodated the tents of Mark and John. Good Texans all, we swapped tails of
trails and trials of child rearing as Friday drew to a close.
Saturday in the rain
Had planned another ride for
Saturday, but off and on showers mixed with drizzle precluded riding those
unfamiliar roads. So I spent most of the day wandering around looking at bikes,
talking to a hearing protection vendor, checking vendors for specials and just
visiting with folks. I watched Helen Twowheels demonstrate her packing system
for at least the three hundredth time this weekend, still with the exuberance
and enthusiasm she showed the first time I saw her do it. I strolled through
the campgrounds looking for other folks I knew from the road, renewing old
acquaintances and making new ones.
Spent
some more time with the affable Bob and Judy and enjoyed some relatively deep
discussions about parenting and responsibility with John and Mark. Bob kept us
amused with raucous stories of his youth that set the perfect counterpoint for
our serious discussions.
Kept
an eye out for another of my Texas riding friends, Geoff Adams who was bringing
the IBMWR banner along on his “Rolling Rally to Redmond” and due in on
Saturday. Found the banner dropped off at Cissie’s tent, but never did find
Geoff.
I
spent a bit of time at the seminars and learned some things, that in itself is
justification enough for the trip. One thing in particular was that there
actually is a service interval for the fork oil on my telelever-front-end bike.
The good news is that I now know that the fork oil should be changed every
three years. The bad news is that mine is more than four years overdue…
The rain finally cleared off
in time to get in the field games. If you enjoy watching the slow races, you’ll
LOVE watching the two-up slow races on WET grass!
There were a few embarrassing moments, but no broken bits and everyone seemed
to enjoy themselves. The cone weave tennis ball pickup race came down to two
teams that had cleaned the course, so the fiendish organizers mandated that on
the first pass through the cones, the passenger must pick up all the tennis
balls, then the rider turns around and weaves back through the cones while the
passenger attempt to replace the balls on top of the traffic cones, a decidedly
more difficult feat.
Much
to the disappointment of the mostly male crowd, the final event, balloon toss,
didn’t provide the scads of scantily clad females drenched to the goose bumps
by their lack of coordination and/or motor skills.
With
the mechanical jousting tourneys done for the day, we queued up for the
firemen’s feast. A conga line of slightly damp riders, attired in everything
from top-o-the-line Frog Togs to ‘Garments by Glad’ snaked halfway through the
park, awaiting the Styrofoam sacrifice prepared by the local Volunteer Fire
Department. All I can say is, I hope these firemen aren’t cooks in their day
jobs!
After
the closing ceremonies, where we learned that there were over 990 registered
attendees, I retired to my quiet camp to get a head start on rest for Sunday’s
trip. The original plan for this ride had included a trip up to Cheyenne,
Wyoming to visit the base where I’d been stationed in the `60’s. Alas, watching
the weather channel in the teen center had shown steady rain from Denver north
for the next several days. Although I don’t mind riding through some rain to
get somewhere, the idea of riding in the rain to camp in the rain for another
day or two has little appeal, so I would set course for home on Sunday.
As
I was enjoying the sun setting behind the mountains with a nice Jack Daniel’s
toddy, one of my fellow campers asked if I wanted to go back to the rally site
for a big party. I explained that I had a cardinal rule about not riding after
having a whiskey, much less trying to ride back to the campsite after a
full-fledged party. In all innocence,
and sincerity he said, “Well, you can ride along with me as a passenger if you
want…”
After
doing the nightly ritual of circling three times, genuflecting and squatting in
order to find a cell phone signal, I contacted my wife Anna and filled her in
on the revised plans. Another little toddy and I was ready to call it a night.
As sleep carried me off, I could hear the sound of the band at the rally site
wafting through the cool air. Once again assured that I had made the right
decision on location I spent a dreamless night.
Intermittent showers into
the morning delayed my departure a bit. Packing wet camping gear is not one of
my favorite pastimes. But savoring the last of my coffee while waiting out the
storms set a relaxed tone for the ride to come. A tone that was to be more appropriate
than I knew.
Heading
south and west on 133 from Paonia, I picked up 92 south, a twisty bit of
decomposing two lane that skirts the edge of Gunnison National Forest on the
left and Black Canyon on the right before connecting to 50 towards Gunnison.
Wet mountain twisties, swooping and diving through cloud banks and intermittent
showers.
I’m not used to riding in
the clouds. Sweeping around a curve only to find rain, switched back
the
other way only to be out of the rain once again. Breaking out of the clouds,
bright morning sunshine reflects off pure white beach bark, then tumbles over
the bouldered chasm to shatter on the rapids thousands of feet below. There’s
nothing like a surreal Sunday morning ride to set the stage for the trip home.
After
that, it was all down hill, literally and figuratively…
I
gassed up in Gunnison and gassed it once I got out of town. An obliging
motorist flashed his headlights to let me know that an LEO lay ahead. I backed
it down to a reasonable speed for several miles then decided that he had gone
on to other business. At the next passing zone, I wicked it up to get around a
couple of RVs as we climbed a small rise. Topping the rise, what to my wondrous
eyes did appear, but a Colorado State Patrol car with no tiny reindeer…
Glancing in my mirror, I saw him pull on to the shoulder to turn around. I
immediately hit my signal and pulled onto the shoulder on my side. No point in
making him chase me. I’d glanced at the speedo right after I spotted him, it
indicated 75 mph in the 65 mph zone. Having heard stories of how notoriously
inaccurate BMW speedos are, I figured I was doing a bit less than 75, but still
over the limit. We had a nice conversation, talked about bikes, where I was
from, where I’d been, where I was going, all the usual. After he ran my plates
and DL number, he was kind enough to give me a warning and send me on my way.
The
rest of the day was spent leaving the crisp, cool air of Colorado, snipping
just a little corner of New Mexico and beginning the trek across Texas.
Somewhere between Clayton, New Mexico and Dalhart, Texas, I ran into the ridge
of high pressure that the weather liars had been talking about for weeks.
Suddenly, the air around me felt like a warm, wet, woolen blanket. By Amarillo,
I was soaked with sweat and ready to call it a day. I pulled in to a motel on
the eastern edge of Amarillo, but they said they had no ground floor rooms
available (amazing, there were only a couple of cars in the lot…) so I headed
on down the road. I spend a restful night in Claude, Texas at the L.A. Motel.
An old, somewhat shabby place but very clean and with am air conditioner that
put out at least as much cold air as noise.
Monday
morning, I was on the road before sunup, the words from “Texas Trilogy” bouncing around
inside my helmet during the six hours home.
"Six
o'clock silence of a new day beginning
Is
heard in the small Texas town.
Like
a signal from nowhere the people who live there
Are
up and moving around.
'Cause
there's bacon to fry and there's biscuits to bake
On
the stove that the Salvation Army won't take.
And
you open the windows and you turn on the fan
'Cause
it's hotter than hell when the sun hits the land."
(Without permission but with great thanks to Steven Fromholz and Dan McCrimmon, from the
album “Here to There”)