Day Six - Mountain Crossings

I had over four hundred and fifty miles to cover before sundown today and with a day of that kind of mileage I normally like to be on the road at first light. But, with the rear tire shredded I had two choices, first, ride slowly and hope the tire makes it to Colorado Spring where the BMW dealer will replace it or, second, go to the local repair shop where I had made the 9:00 am appointment. Knowing that my ride would take me over some great mountain roads I did not want to short myself the opportunity to ride these roads as they should be ridden so I chose the latter.

I had spent the night in Bloomfield, NM and this corner of the state is a rather ragged looking dusty little place with ragged little houses, carcasses of old cars in most yards and a pale brownish-yellow worn down sameness to everything. My hotel was right on the intersection of routes 44 and 64 and appeared to be the stopping point for a lot of semi-trucks. There was a large dusty lot adjacent to the hotel that had mostly filled with trucks by the time I found my way there.

I filled up at the gas station next to the hotel and, as had been happening over the past couple of days, I had trouble using the card at the pump and had to go inside to pay. I figured that because I was buying gas several times a day in different towns and different states with no apparent pattern they must have thought that the card was stolen. It was good to know that they were watching over it and but it was annoying nonetheless and did not do anything to improve my downcast state of mind.

Being bummed out slows you down and I arrived for my appointment about 15 minutes late but Richard was chatting to a friend of his and they seemed to be having a decent time. He greeted me jovially, opened the shop door and told me to bring her on in. We got the bike situated and he proceeded to do his thing.

The name of the repair shop is Righteous Richard’s Repairs, named after the owner who is the friendliest and most welcoming mechanic I have met. He kept calling me bro but it sounded closer to the southern California version; brahw with a really weak and almost silent “w” at the end. As people popped in and out of his shop that morning he called all of them the same thing so I figured that was just his standard greeting.

We chatted as he worked about bikes, mountain roads, how life is hard and throws you some terrible curve balls but also how many really nice people there are out there. Good people who are just living life and eager to do anything they can to make yours a better day when you encounter them. I told him about the other motorcyclists on the road who took the time to look at my tire, discuss the situation and make recommendations based on their experience.

He told me about his motorcycle, how he bought it when he was 16 and how it had been his primary source of transportation ever since. As you can see in the photo below it really is a neat machine with a cobra headed suicide shifter, crazy cool paint job and little trim pieces that you cannot see in the photo such as a little skull knob for the fuel shut-off valve, a bicycle pedal for the kick start lever and clear green grips to match the paint.

The conversation eventually wound around to how he ended up in the area and it turns out that he is from a little town here in Northern Ohio and I have spent a couple of nights in that little town. The vast majority of people have never heard of Tiffin, Ohio let alone been there and he was so excited by it and since I had spent a couple of nights there on a cycling vacation I remembered part of the layout of the town and described the different places I ate and enjoyed beers.

He told me about his family and how his mother now lives the neighboring town of Bascom, Ohio. I told him that since it was so close to Cleveland and I had room on my bike if there was anything he would like to send home I would gladly take it and deliver it to his mother. He was so thrilled but could not think of anything right at that time so he said he would think about it as he worked on the tire.

Once he was done with the tire we got the bike down off the rack and he took it for a test ride just to make sure all was good. When he came back he was grinning from ear to ear and it was quite clear that he had fallen in love with the bike. We decided that we would take a photo of us in front of his shop to his mother, showing up and surprising her with the photo.

He told me that he comes home every Christmas and brings his bike along so that he can ride on the days that allow it. I told him that I would keep in touch and when he comes up I would like him to take my motorcycle out on a good day-long ride so that he could really get the true feel of it so we have that reunion to look forward to.

With that done, we settled the bill and I was on my way. New motorcycle tires have to be scuffed in order to provide the maximum traction and the normal rule is about 100 miles but he told me the Righteous law was 150 miles so 150 it would be.

I left town headed east along route 64 with the intent of riding through the San Juan Mountains to Taos, New Mexico and then on to Raton before heading up interstate 25 to Colorado Springs. Route 64 started out rather flat but soon became a little twisty with long sweeping turns and I turned up the heat enough to make me smile but not enough to break the Righteous Law of Tire Scuffing. I was feeling great about having spent that little time in the morning with Richard and also thrilled about having a tire that would allow me to really enjoy these roads.

Just as I reached the Carson National Forest and was ready for a break I saw two motorcyclists taking a break along the side of the road so I stopped to join them. They were from Pagosa Springs, Colorado and were out enjoying the first day with no rain forecast in a while. We chatted about rides and roads and I told them about Righteous Richard and encouraged them to stop in and chat with him if time allowed and they said they might do that. They asked where I was from and what my planned route and destination were for the day. On telling them that I was headed to Colorado Springs and was worried about getting there by sundown, they agreed that it was an aggressive schedule and they suggested an alternate route that would still take me through some beautiful mountains but cut an hour off my travel time. They also suggested lunch at a roadside kitchen at a gas station just outside Dulce, a few miles up the road.

Lunch was a fry-burger provided by some enterprising Navajo and they must have been a relatively long standing business because while I was there quite a number of locals showed up to grab a quick bite and some of them just showed up, exchanged greetings without specifying what they wanted but their meals were prepared, offered and accepted with the familiarity of regulars at a local diner. It was nice to be standing around chatting to folks as they waited for their food, good folks just taking a break from the hard work that made up their long days. Some of them wore cowboy hats and had good brown western boots with mud from many hard days’ work on them.

One Navajo about my age was chatting to me about the motorcycle and told me how his brother had just bought a Kawasaki and had gone to Taos to get the registration. Another showed me his scars from a crash many years ago when he was doing 110 and wiped out. While I was enjoying the conversation I had to be on my way so I bade them farewell, threw my leg over the motorcycle and headed north for the Colorado border.

As I headed into Colorado I got some pictures of the San Juan Mountains in New Mexico as well as the peaks in the Rio Grande National Forest which is also in the San Juan range. One strange thing about riding into Colorado was as soon as I crossed the state line, my until then clean windshield started catching bugs at an alarmingly fast rate. I rode over 200 miles in New Mexico and all through Utah the previous day and had maybe 10 bug carcasses on there but within 10 miles of Colorado back road it looked like I had been on the road for a week!!

I was soon in Pagosa Springs, the home town of the two motorcyclists who had suggested the alternate route. Pagosa Springs is the first town to the west of Wolf Creek Pass and I had come through here a couple of days ago on my way to Durango but it was raining at the time so with my focus on the road I didn’t get to see any of the scenery.

As I climbed up to Wolf Creek Pass I stopped a couple of times to take photos and just to look around and take it all in. I remember passing through in the rain and wishing it was dry so that I would not have to make a white knuckled ride through those exquisite curves. Well, it looks like providence granted my wish in a strange way between the tire and the two guys on the side of the road offering an alternate route and I thanked her for her generosity.

After going over the top I went through South Fork and stopped in Del Norte on the Rio Grande to fill up for the trek north to Colorado Springs.

The route took me north along route 285 and I was to pick up route 50 in Pagocha Springs just north of the Pagocha Pass at elevation 9,010 feet. Route 285 runs in the valley between the Sangre De Cristo Mountain range to the east and the San Juan range to the west. There are wheat farms and pasture land on either side and this is the first straight road I have traveled in Colorado. With the sun having started it’s post-noon journey to the western horizon, in this case made jagged by the peaks on the west flank of the valley, the light fell beautifully on the Sangre de Cristo mountains, and true to the state motto, brining out their colors in a vivid brilliance.

I stopped to take a photo each time the scenery took my breath away and even though that meant delaying my arrival in Colorado Springs to after sunset, I decided that it was well worth it.

When I arrived in Pagocha Springs the approach to the intersection provided a stunning view of the south end of the Sawatch Mountain range with its majestic peaks towering up to the 14,269 ft peak of Mount Antero which slightly dwarfed the surrounding peaks in that beautiful range. Just on route 50 I turned onto a lot next to a gas station only to find a very large stainless steel welded sculpture of a rather handsome horse. Of course, I parked the motorcycle next to it and captured the picture of two iron horses next to each other.

Unfortunately, the view of the mountains was blocked by trees and buildings and only the very tips served as the backdrop of the photo with the horse sculpture. No worries, the two motorcyclists who had suggested this route promised a beautiful ride along the Arkansas River so I pressed on.

Moving out of town the scenery lived up to the promise. Long sweeping curves, small tight bends, excellent roads and no place for the cops to hide. The sides of the valley were towering red rocks dotted with the occasional scraggly scrub desperately clinging to the canyon walls somehow managing to scrape out an existence with the minimal nutrients offered by the rocks and the little rain that comes through.

The valley was truly beautiful!! In the days leading up to this I had ridden many roads, up many mountains and through many a valley. That riding provided the opportunity to learn a lot about the motorcycle and to gain confidence in it and myself. I took every lesson and little bit of experience gleaned from the few days in the Rockies and put it all to use as I powered through the valley leaning low in the turns and blasting along the straights with a quick glance at the sparking Arkansas, the blue sky and the red rocks in between. I knew it was the last of the mountain rides I would do before starting out on the plains the next day and I wanted, and did, make the most of it. Beautiful as it was, I did not stop for photos. Intoxicated by the low roar of the exhaust note at full sing, the beauty that surrounded me, the superb balance of my machine and the confidence it inspired I chose to take it all in rather than stop to record it. On a return trip I will take the time to stop for a few photos but, that is for another day.

Just east of Canon City and about 20 miles outside of Pueblo I stopped to watch the sun set over the Sawatch Range. It was difficult to tear myself away from the beauty of a glowing red sunset against the backdrop of mountain peaks seen from across a valley. Difficult because I knew that the days in the mountains were done and just as the sun was setting on the day, so was it setting on my vacation. Unfortunately, all good things must end and this one ended in a magnificent fiery-red sunset that only mother nature in all her glory can produce. A fitting end to a wonderful journey. I have been captivated and captured by the mountains and they will hold a willing hostage a part of me that will always want to return.