From: mitch@seashell.seas.ucla.edu (Robert R. Mitchell (SEAS admin))
Newsgroups: rec.motorcycles
Subject: A Denizen's Excellent Adventure (trip report)
Date: 28 Sep 92 17:05:49 GMT
Distribution: na
Organization: SEASnet, University of California, Los Angeles


Greetings, Denizens!

Well, I've finally whittled my in-box down to size after returning
from vacation, so I'll take a few minutes to relate the tale of my
Most Excellent Adventure through Arizona and Colorado (Sept. 5-12).

What a great road trip!  Eight days, 2830 miles.  I got a
late start because my bike was in the shop until Friday, so
I didn't get started until about 5pm on Saturday.  I had
planned to go to Phoenix the first evening, but I was beat
by the time I got to Blythe, so I got a room there.  Then
I overslept, and by the time I got packed up and on the road,
I was no further than I would have been if I'd stayed home
Saturday night and left early Sunday morning.  I went from
Blythe to Prescott (good bike road), then through Jerome and
Sedona, and Flagstaff and stayed Sunday night in Holbrook.

Monday morning I went through Chambers and Ganado to Chinle.
The Great Social Upheaval of the late Sixties basically caused
my folks to freak out, and they dragged us kids to the most remote
place they could find.  To paraphrase Luke Skywalker, if there's
a bright center of the Galaxy, Chinle is about as far from it as
you could get.  (Or, to put it another way, if they were gonna give
the world an enema, Chinle is where they'd stick the hose.)
Living here during my high school years is largely what I blame for
my deranged mentality and twisted personality.
I expected it to be really dismal and depressing, but it was
even worse than I could have imagined.  As bad as was when
I lived there, twenty years of neglect and decay have made
this area truly miserable.  I took some pictures of my old
high school; time to move on.

Finally I'm off the reservation and across the state line into
Colorado!  The sun seems brighter and the sky bluer, somehow.
I stop at the KFC in Cortez for a late lunch, and something seems
strange.  It takes me a few minutes to figure out what it is: _every_
face behind the counter (and the busboy who is sweeping up) belongs
to a Caucasian.  I haven't seen this phenomenon since I was in
Oregon two years ago.  Ten miles from Durango, I'm doing 75 in a 55
when I pass a cop who's parked on the opposite shoulder facing me.  
I'm watching in the mirror, and sure enough he pulls out and hangs 
a U and I think he's after me.  Should I just pull over and wait for 
him?  Screw that, I'm seven minutes from Durango in moderate traffic 
and hilly terrain.  He hasn't hit his lights yet, so I twist the grip 
and put several cars between us.  Guess he wasn't that interested, 
because I never see him again.  

North of Durango now, and as I pass the Purgatory ski area, I
realize I'm in Uncharted Territory.  Two-and-a-half days to get to
an unfamiliar road.  It's well past dusk when I reach Silverton.
Awesome road, but from the map I assume I've bottomed out and the
highway will just sort of wind through the canyon to Ouray.  Wrong.
Later I will find out that this section is called "The Swiss Alps
of Colorado", but right now ignorance is bliss as I hit the first
of several switchbacks.  A series of five or six hairpin 180 curves,
followed by a mile or two of descending, winding road, and into the
next series of hairpins.  This would be treacherous in the daytime;
after dark it's completely insane.  A storm went through this area
a few days ago, and I'm worried about icy patches on the road. I've 
zeroed-out my Karma account by the time I reach Ouray.  Find a really 
nice KOA in Ouray, one that caters to tenters not Bagos!  It is late 
in the season up here, and except for one of the Kabins, there's nobody 
here but some bikers from Oklahoma City.  It is also cold.  Damned cold.  
They share their campfire and beer, and we swap lies until late into 
the night.  One profound and humorous snippet of conversation:
"Hell, if I'd known I was gonna live this long, I'd have taken better
care of myself."
Did I mention that it was cold?  I get up three times to
add yet another layer of clothing, and finally I'm able to sleep.

Tuesday morning, and the sun feels great!  I sleep in and take my
time packing up, so it's almost noon by the time I get going.
North to Montrose, then East through Black Canyon to Gunnison.  I stop
at an A&W in Gunnison, and the root beer is served in an actual
Frosty Mug!  Definitely one of the high points.  Eastward through
Monarch Pass (11312) and cross the Great Divide for the first of
several times.  At Salida, I turn North toward Leadville.  Another
pass higher than 11k, back over to the west side of the Divide,
and by late afternoon I'm in a town called Frisco.  This area is called
"Summit County". Extremely cold and now windy, so I don't even think about 
camping out tonight.  I score a room for $20 in an actual lodge with a
common bathroom down the hall (just like in the movies).  But I'm one of 
the few guests and I have the whole floor to myself.  I spend a few hours
in the jacuzzi, and pass out in my bed before I can get undressed.

Wednesday morning, I get an early start for a change.  Today I will
cross the Divide three times and go over five major passes, all 
well over 11k and one over 12k.  I'm thinking like a biker now, so
I shun the Denny's in favor of the mom-and-pop eateries.  Breakfast
in Winter Park, at a place simply called The Kitchen.  "We serve
good food, not fast food.  Your order may take up to an hour."  Best
meal of the trip.  Back on the road, and just past the entrance to
Rocky Mountain Nat'l Park I cross a small stream called The Colorado
River.  I crossed the same river four days ago in Blythe, but here you
could wade across and hardly get your ankles wet.

It's difficult to describe RMNP.  All the good adjectives have been
used up.  I've seen places just as wonderful, but it's the expanse
that's awesome.  The Trail Ridge road winds through alpine tundra
for miles and miles, most of it near 12k elevation.  Words can only
cheapen the experience.  If you've been there, then you know; if not,
you'll just have to see this for yourself.

I get to Estes Park at 3pm.  I didn't know about it when I planned
my trip, but before I left I learned that the Americade bike rally
was happening during this week.  Five dollars after 3pm (instead
of the usual $20).  The bike factories have their demo fleets up
here for free test rides.  I get to ride the 750 Nighthawk and the
1100 Shadow, with only a minimal wait.  (Huge line for the Harleys,
and all the slots for today are gone.  Oh, well.)  Both bikes are
nice, if overly-specialized.  The big Shadow is a pure highway cruiser.
Basically a La-Z-Boy on wheels.  

Alex Matthews sent me e-mail before I left, telling me to give him
a call when I reached the Boulder area.  So I call him from Estes
Park and he gives me directions to his place.  Alex has the distinction
of being the only person I've met who has an actual, working _phonograph
turntable_.  (You youngsters won't know what this means, but I hear
they have one on display in the Smithsonian.) Alex calls the local 
Denizens and arranges a get-together at a "brew pub".
The POSERS don't show, but I get to meet the infamous Laszlo, who
offers me his spare bedroom for the night.  Thanks again, Laz!
What can I say about Laszlo?  If I'd had a younger brother to corrupt,
lead astray, and generally be a bad influence upon, that'd be Laszlo.

Boulder is a great place.  Reminds me a lot of Flagstaff in the old
days.  Real Bohemian, lots of "neo-hippies", degenerates and other
assorted low-lifes.  Somehow, I felt right at home.  

Thursday morning.  Time to get vectored back toward home.  Breakfast
in Idaho Springs, and then I take a side trip up Mt. Evans (14264) and
Summit Lake.  My map claims that this is the highest auto road in the
continental U.S.  More sweeping curves through alpine tundra.  Tourists
block traffic to take pictures of the mountain goats that have wandered
onto the road.  Back down the mountain and westbound on I-70.  This time
I stay on the superslab and cross the Divide once again by going through
the Eisenhower Tunnel.  This is incredible!  It just goes on and on
seemingly forever.  Must be about four or five miles, but it seems
longer.  Real Twilight Zone stuff.  Finally I'm through it.  A series
of Runaway Truck Ramps is not very comforting.  I'm headed for Glenwood
Springs, but I decide to go the long way around through Aspen.  I turn
south, cross the Divide again, and go back through Leadville.  This 
dirty little mining town is aptly named.  Now I turn west and head up
the grade to Independence Pass.  This road takes me past Mt. Elbert, at
14431 feet it's the highest point in Colorado and the second highest
(next to Mt. Whitney in the Sierras) in the Lower 48.  This road
is quite a rush!  I'm incredibly elated; traveling this road on a 
motorcycle is better than drugs--almost better than sex!  My face begins
to ache from grinning so much.  Over the Divide for the last time at
Independence Pass and down the grade to Aspen.  

What a disappointment!  I'm certain that all the young urban professionals 
kneel down and pray three times a day facing Aspen.  This place is Yuppie 
Mecca.  Here's the proof:  Aspen cops drive Saab 9000s!  I am most 
definitely out of place here.  Two of these cops are taking their break 
at a public picnic table and are giving me the Evil Eye.  So I make a 
point of joining them and striking up a conversation.  I give them a 
hard time about the Saabs, and they seem genuinely embarrassed.
They turn out to be okay guys, once they decide I'm not here to do any
raping or pillaging, and give me good directions around the now-congested
traffic headed for Glenwood Springs at a glacial pace.  I travel through
Woody Creek, home of gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson.  I was gonna
stop here and have a brew with this guy, but the poser didn't show! :-)

Glenwood Springs and another KOA.  By the time I get my tent set up,
the old geezer who runs this place (as hobby instead of a business) has
locked up the store and gone to bed before 8pm.  I scrounge around the
unoccupied sites and glean enough firewood for a small campfire.  At least
I'll go to sleep warm and hungry instead of cold and hungry.  I meet the
retired couple in the site next to mine.  They have a Goldwing with a
trailer, and are on their way home to Phoenix.  They've been to Americade
this week, and we compare notes and have a pleasant conversation.

Friday morning.  I know I'll pay for it tomorrow, but the lure is too
strong to resist, and I decide to head back through Ouray and Silverton.
I've got to do that awesome highway in the daytime.  Eastbound on I-70
to Grand Junction, then south to Montrose and grab a cheeseburger and
fries for a late breakfast.  I catch up with the retired couple on the
'Wing at a fuel stop.  We are parting ways just up the road, so we
say goodbye for the last time.  A quick blast down the road and I'm
back in Ouray.  Each time I check in with my spousal unit by phone, she's 
nagging me to get souvenirs for the kids, so I spend some time in Ouray 
playing tourist and checking out the t-shirt shops.  Ouray is an authentic 
little western town; the yuppies haven't spoiled it yet.  Shopping duties 
completed, and now it's time for some fun!  

I'm dancing with a road that has more curves than Claudia Schiffer.
Left-two-three, right-two-three, left-two-three...this _is_ better 
than sex!  But my coitus with the road is interrupted by a Total
Moron towing a boat.  He's got six or seven cars stacked up behind
him, and obviously doesn't know what the turnouts are for.  No problem.
At the first opportunity I kick it down a gear and do a California
Pass, double-yellow and all, around the whole parade.  Now the road
is all mine once again.  The switchbacks require a degree of total 
concentration that transcends conscious thought.  I experience one of
those rare Zen moments where man, machine and road have become One.
It occurs to me that I have forgotten to breathe for the past several
minutes, and the moment is shattered with a heavy sigh of contentment.

All too soon, I reach the outskirts of Durango.  Through Durango, and
I throttle back to a reasonable pace, wary of the highway patrol.  And
there he is, he's got someone stopped on the eastbound side.  I relax
and cruise on into Cortez.  Within the hour I'm sitting in the KOA
jacuzzi drinking a beer as I watch the full Moon rise over the mountains
to the East.  A perfect day, and I refuse to think about the desolate
wasteland I still have to cross.

Saturday morning.  Time to pay for yesterday's fun.  I'm up with the sun,
and get the earliest start yet.  I'm doing 95+ approaching Kayenta,
fighting a strong headwind.  The low-fuel light has been lit for the 
last 20 miles, and I have A Bad Feeling About This.  Sure enough, eight 
miles from town and the bike dies.  I unpack the empty gas can I brought 
along, and stick out my thumb.  A trucker stops within thirty seconds 
and takes me into town.  I fill up the can and trudge back to the highway.  
I walk less than 100 yards when another trucker stops for me.  Turns out 
the first guy fired up his CB and told the second guy to watch for me.  I'm
was back on the road within 20 minutes.  I will never say another Bad Thing
about truckers.  If my Karma account was zeroed-out before, now it's 
overdrawn.  

Fighting wind and boredom, hanging on until I reach finally reach Flagstaff.  
I've gained an hour when I crossed timezones, so I turn my clock back.  
It's 1pm, too early to quit and I don't want to wake up in Kingman or Needles.  
I'm all out of drugs, money, time, and good roads, so I decide to jump on
I-40 and just push on to L.A.

Nothing interesting to report here, except for a conversation I had
with a trucker at a rest stop near the state line.  I asked him what
he was hauling: "Q-tips".  "Q-tips?"  "Yeah, 46,000 pounds of Q-tips."
From the factory in Missouri to the warehouse in L.A.  I'm still wondering
if that's a week's supply or a year's supply.

Kingman: God, I hate this road.
Needles: God, I hate this road.
Barstow: God, I really hate this road.

A minor navigation error near San Bernardino adds an unnecessary 20
miles.  Los Angeles welcomes me back with a midnight traffic jam.
I finally reach my driveway at 1am.  Seventeen hours, 740 miles.
Not a record, of course, but certainly respectable.  Looking at the map, 
I still can't believe I did it.

I hope you all enjoyed reading this account of my "Excellent Adventure".

-- 
DISCLAIMER:                                              | Bob Mitchell
"Don't blame _me_, _I_ didn't do it!" --Krusty the Clown | mitch@ea.ucla.edu
"Ididn'tdoitnobodysawmeyoucan'tproveanything!" --Bartman | DOD#[classified]
"Computers are ruining this country." --Al Bundy         | 1987 VT700c