At 8:25 PM I set my watch to Mountain Time.
That’s when it hit me.
I’d prevailed over the Great Plains, again.
From here on, I’d be reaping the rewards of that ordeal.
Now I was sitting in the Thai Pepper Café, on Laurel Street just a short walk from my hotel.
I’d been pleased to find (in contrast to most Thai restaurants in Michigan) that beer was available.
I’d asked the waitress, reflexively, “What’s local?”
“Well”, she said, “O’Dells, and of course New Belgium…”
I had to chuckle. One reason I’d decided to land in Fort Collins this day was that it’s the home of New Belgium. I’d thought maybe I’d even find their tasting room. I like New Belgium for a lot of reasons, not least that they run their brewery on wind power. But I also drink New Belgium’s Fat Tire ale on a very routine basis; it’s my go-to beer choice most places, where even in Michigan it’s easier to find Fat Tire than Bell’s Amber Ale, which is my preferred local brew back home.
But this night called for something more special than Fat Tire. I ordered a 1554 black lager to accompany my pad woon sene.
After dinner I walked further north to the historic downtown, and discovered that I really like Fort Collins.
A nice pedestrian mall with a covered stage. Lots of bicycles, on par with Amsterdam. Lots of deep and mysterious alleys.
That’s when it hit me.
I’d prevailed over the Great Plains, again.
From here on, I’d be reaping the rewards of that ordeal.
Now I was sitting in the Thai Pepper Café, on Laurel Street just a short walk from my hotel.
I’d been pleased to find (in contrast to most Thai restaurants in Michigan) that beer was available.
I’d asked the waitress, reflexively, “What’s local?”
“Well”, she said, “O’Dells, and of course New Belgium…”
I had to chuckle. One reason I’d decided to land in Fort Collins this day was that it’s the home of New Belgium. I’d thought maybe I’d even find their tasting room. I like New Belgium for a lot of reasons, not least that they run their brewery on wind power. But I also drink New Belgium’s Fat Tire ale on a very routine basis; it’s my go-to beer choice most places, where even in Michigan it’s easier to find Fat Tire than Bell’s Amber Ale, which is my preferred local brew back home.
But this night called for something more special than Fat Tire. I ordered a 1554 black lager to accompany my pad woon sene.
After dinner I walked further north to the historic downtown, and discovered that I really like Fort Collins.
A nice pedestrian mall with a covered stage. Lots of bicycles, on par with Amsterdam. Lots of deep and mysterious alleys.
Fountain, Fort Collins
Sculpture, Fort Collins
I also saw this Yamaha TX-500. It might be the very same machine Paul Chuey used to own when he was my roommate at Arizona State; but I think his was a different color.
I’ve been to Fort Collins several times, more often than many other places I go to on purpose. But I’ve only ever driven through it; it’s never been a destination. In order to maximize my Mountain Time, for the past few years I’ve taken to exiting the twisty roads via the delightful curves of Colorado 14, winding along the Cache La Poudre river (known simply as “the Poudre”, pronounced “pooder”, as I learned from Patrick, the local I sat next to at Coopersmith brewpub).
On these rides I often spend the last night in the mountains at a cabin up on the Poudre; then in the morning I’ll descend to where the route dumps me out of the mountains in Fort Collins. At that point my motivation has always been to get out of town as quickly as possible, then grit my teeth and start the long ride back across the plains.
There was one time I came to Fort Collins from the east, but that day again I just wanted to get through it and make my way to Estes Park to meet Dad and Cathy.
* * *
Reflections on the day’s ride.
Dog food and donuts.
Those were the smells riding through Omaha.
Ahead was a gloomy bank of clouds, the residue of the rather enormous storm that had rolled over my hotel the previous night. A few drops of rain pattered on my visor but I-80 kept swinging southwest, and that bought me a fair amount of time before I finally had to admit defeat.
An old joke among riders is that “the best way to make it stop raining is to put on your rain suit.”
Back in the day, before pocket weather radar, this was a common and infuriating syndrome. But today’s was a case where I knew, without a doubt, that’s exactly what would happen.
Before even unpacking my rain gear I checked the weather map. I was in the middle of the southern extents of that band of rain, which stretched across my path from south to north, and was moving slowly northward.
I knew that if I continued riding west, I’d be out of it in a matter of minutes. But I couldn’t simply sit there under the gas station awning, because the rain wasn’t going to stop in that place for perhaps an hour or more.
If it had been warmer – like yesterday – I never would have stopped; I would simply have ridden through it, getting soaked to the skin in the process and then taking advantage of the evaporative cooling effect once I inevitably reached the sunshine and heat on the far side.
But I’d moved into a cold front since leaving Council Bluffs. Now, being soaking wet in temps that were barely flirting with the 60s, was an invitation to hypothermia. So I put on the rain suit and got back on the highway.
In ten minutes I was out of the rain.
In half an hour the pavement was dry.
I left my rain gear on; it was chilly enough that the extra wind-proof layer was a good thing. But eventually the day became fine and sunny, so at the next gas I peeled off the rain suit, then had a very nice Punjabi curry at the most unlikely place I’ve ever seen for an Indian restaurant.
At Overton, Nebraska is an old truck stop that, at a glance, could easily pass for abandoned.
Inside, the restaurant doesn’t look much better. Each booth features this interesting relic:
On these rides I often spend the last night in the mountains at a cabin up on the Poudre; then in the morning I’ll descend to where the route dumps me out of the mountains in Fort Collins. At that point my motivation has always been to get out of town as quickly as possible, then grit my teeth and start the long ride back across the plains.
There was one time I came to Fort Collins from the east, but that day again I just wanted to get through it and make my way to Estes Park to meet Dad and Cathy.
* * *
Reflections on the day’s ride.
Dog food and donuts.
Those were the smells riding through Omaha.
Ahead was a gloomy bank of clouds, the residue of the rather enormous storm that had rolled over my hotel the previous night. A few drops of rain pattered on my visor but I-80 kept swinging southwest, and that bought me a fair amount of time before I finally had to admit defeat.
An old joke among riders is that “the best way to make it stop raining is to put on your rain suit.”
Back in the day, before pocket weather radar, this was a common and infuriating syndrome. But today’s was a case where I knew, without a doubt, that’s exactly what would happen.
Before even unpacking my rain gear I checked the weather map. I was in the middle of the southern extents of that band of rain, which stretched across my path from south to north, and was moving slowly northward.
I knew that if I continued riding west, I’d be out of it in a matter of minutes. But I couldn’t simply sit there under the gas station awning, because the rain wasn’t going to stop in that place for perhaps an hour or more.
If it had been warmer – like yesterday – I never would have stopped; I would simply have ridden through it, getting soaked to the skin in the process and then taking advantage of the evaporative cooling effect once I inevitably reached the sunshine and heat on the far side.
But I’d moved into a cold front since leaving Council Bluffs. Now, being soaking wet in temps that were barely flirting with the 60s, was an invitation to hypothermia. So I put on the rain suit and got back on the highway.
In ten minutes I was out of the rain.
In half an hour the pavement was dry.
I left my rain gear on; it was chilly enough that the extra wind-proof layer was a good thing. But eventually the day became fine and sunny, so at the next gas I peeled off the rain suit, then had a very nice Punjabi curry at the most unlikely place I’ve ever seen for an Indian restaurant.
At Overton, Nebraska is an old truck stop that, at a glance, could easily pass for abandoned.
Inside, the restaurant doesn’t look much better. Each booth features this interesting relic:
The Jay Brothers are obviously just part of a family of Indian descent; mothers and grandmothers kept cycling in and out of the kitchen. I was a bit disappointed not to see a barefoot four-year-old running around, which I consider an excellent indicator of the quality of a restaurant.
I continued to Colorado, and didn’t make up my mind to go to Fort Collins until the last second. Likewise, I was already inside the city limits when I finally looked up and booked a hotel; but I didn’t figure I’d have any problem finding a room on a Tuesday night in the off-season.
On Wednesday, for the first time ever, I'll ride up the Poudre.
I continued to Colorado, and didn’t make up my mind to go to Fort Collins until the last second. Likewise, I was already inside the city limits when I finally looked up and booked a hotel; but I didn’t figure I’d have any problem finding a room on a Tuesday night in the off-season.
On Wednesday, for the first time ever, I'll ride up the Poudre.
RSS Feed