Tal-Wi-Wi Lodge, Alpine, Arizona. Image courtesy Larry Haruska.
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
With the sun barely having cleared the tops of the Ponderosa pines of the forest surrounding Tal-Wi-Wi lodge, I discovered Therese's saddle encrusted with ice.
There was none on Merlin or Ziggy or Gary's bike. That's because they all had covers, a luxury I've never included in any collection of motorcycle touring gear, where I've been known to saw toothbrush handles in half to conserve packing space.
My hemi-cohort of readers who've followed my dispatches over the years (thanks!) may have detected the occasional clue that Larry and Gary are both fastidious about the cosmetic cleanliness of their machines.
I am not.
Comparing Larry's moto-hygiene to mine is basically the same as comparing his approach to tour planning (fanatically detailed) to mine (I'll figure it out when I get to wherever "there" turns out to be. Maybe. If I really must.)
The other three bikes in our little expedition had been de-bug-splatted on a regular basis, often at rest stops and every evening at the very least. By contrast, it had been several months since Therese was last washed.
Of course she'd been parked and covered in mom's garage most of that time. But since my arrival in Phoenix the previous week I'd ridden nearly 1500 miles, and with the exception of the mirrors (polished whenever a discernible speck appears on the glass), Therese was encrusted with the accumulated detritus of every impacted insect, precipitate deposit, combustion byproduct, and random suspended or ballistic lithospheric particle she'd encountered along the way.
To be fair, I don't treat my own outward appearance much differently. My visor gets cleaned every time I take off my helmet, and sometimes while moving at speed; I keep a microfiber towel tucked in a half-unzipped tank bag pocket where I can easily pull it out and use it for a quick swipe at the big splat that invariably happens within the first half mile of every sortie. But otherwise my riding apparel is rarely treated to more than the occasional wet rag. Even that pretty much only happens when whatever's embedded in the fabric or smeared across the helmet shell might be considered unreasonably offensive to pedestrians, waitstaff, and shopkeepers.
By contrast, Gary wears a fluorescent orange vest over his jacket not because he's trying to make himself more visible to obliviots, but so he can just peel it off and throw it in the washer after it has done its duty as a "bug condom".
It's not that I like having a grungy motorcycle and riding togs. I'd be an early adopter of any technology that could reliably generate an effective bug-deflecting force field that would keep my bike -- or at least my visor -- free of all the grime that insists on sticking when I ram into it at high speed.
But I have always detested the chore of cleaning motorcycles. Unlike the smooth sweeping metal and glass and plastic of modern automobiles, bikes are fractal clusters of knuckle-busting hardware whose negative spaces intrinsically form crud-magnet nooks and crannies.
When I bought my R1100RS Nada Three back in 1993, I hadn't had the bike a week when I decided I wasn't even going to try to keep her clean. I quickly grew to not merely tolerate but favor the lived-in look she soon developed.
Among Therese's best features are wheels the color of brake dust and her extensive cladding of easily-wiped bodywork, making less frequent and less onerous those violations of my long-held credo that every minute spent washing a motorcycle is a minute I should have spent riding it.
With the sun barely having cleared the tops of the Ponderosa pines of the forest surrounding Tal-Wi-Wi lodge, I discovered Therese's saddle encrusted with ice.
There was none on Merlin or Ziggy or Gary's bike. That's because they all had covers, a luxury I've never included in any collection of motorcycle touring gear, where I've been known to saw toothbrush handles in half to conserve packing space.
My hemi-cohort of readers who've followed my dispatches over the years (thanks!) may have detected the occasional clue that Larry and Gary are both fastidious about the cosmetic cleanliness of their machines.
I am not.
Comparing Larry's moto-hygiene to mine is basically the same as comparing his approach to tour planning (fanatically detailed) to mine (I'll figure it out when I get to wherever "there" turns out to be. Maybe. If I really must.)
The other three bikes in our little expedition had been de-bug-splatted on a regular basis, often at rest stops and every evening at the very least. By contrast, it had been several months since Therese was last washed.
Of course she'd been parked and covered in mom's garage most of that time. But since my arrival in Phoenix the previous week I'd ridden nearly 1500 miles, and with the exception of the mirrors (polished whenever a discernible speck appears on the glass), Therese was encrusted with the accumulated detritus of every impacted insect, precipitate deposit, combustion byproduct, and random suspended or ballistic lithospheric particle she'd encountered along the way.
To be fair, I don't treat my own outward appearance much differently. My visor gets cleaned every time I take off my helmet, and sometimes while moving at speed; I keep a microfiber towel tucked in a half-unzipped tank bag pocket where I can easily pull it out and use it for a quick swipe at the big splat that invariably happens within the first half mile of every sortie. But otherwise my riding apparel is rarely treated to more than the occasional wet rag. Even that pretty much only happens when whatever's embedded in the fabric or smeared across the helmet shell might be considered unreasonably offensive to pedestrians, waitstaff, and shopkeepers.
By contrast, Gary wears a fluorescent orange vest over his jacket not because he's trying to make himself more visible to obliviots, but so he can just peel it off and throw it in the washer after it has done its duty as a "bug condom".
It's not that I like having a grungy motorcycle and riding togs. I'd be an early adopter of any technology that could reliably generate an effective bug-deflecting force field that would keep my bike -- or at least my visor -- free of all the grime that insists on sticking when I ram into it at high speed.
But I have always detested the chore of cleaning motorcycles. Unlike the smooth sweeping metal and glass and plastic of modern automobiles, bikes are fractal clusters of knuckle-busting hardware whose negative spaces intrinsically form crud-magnet nooks and crannies.
When I bought my R1100RS Nada Three back in 1993, I hadn't had the bike a week when I decided I wasn't even going to try to keep her clean. I quickly grew to not merely tolerate but favor the lived-in look she soon developed.
Among Therese's best features are wheels the color of brake dust and her extensive cladding of easily-wiped bodywork, making less frequent and less onerous those violations of my long-held credo that every minute spent washing a motorcycle is a minute I should have spent riding it.
Your Humble Narrator, G&L&J
This morning was when my tour diverged from that of L&J&G.
L&J were heading back to the valley and had to be there in time for a dental appointment, which struck me as a particularly bad reason to force the end of a tour regardless of whether a return to work loomed over the following day.
G was not facing the prospect of dental or any other kind of work, but was returning to Phoenix anyway and would ride with them for some fraction of the trip. He had declined without explanation my invitation to join me for a loop into Colorado.
I was in no particular hurry; I moved Therese out into the sun where the frost would melt more quickly, milled around while the trio loaded up, shot hand-held GoPro videos of their departure, then took a shower and packed up.
The only other guest at Tal-Wi-Wi was a gentleman driving a 1970-ish Ford F100 pickup, very clean with a nice set of wheels. L&J&G&I had chatted with him the previous evening; he was from Tucson and was up here scouting his hunting territory.
As I began loading up Therese, the hunter was loading his truck. Chatter resumed, and after some pleasantries we got on the subject of where we might want to live, if not where we already did.
"I don't have any plans to move," I said, "But if I did Colorado is the only place that interests me."
He nodded. "Yes, I've thought about Colorado. But it's too liberal."
Echoes of last evening's funk. I really didn't want to get into a political discussion, and certainly not an argument, on this otherwise fine morning. But I wasn't going to give any ground, either.
"That's not a problem for me," I replied.
My response had the desired effect of returning the conversation to idle chatter that soon evaporated completely as he finished loading and got into his truck.
But it didn't start. He cranked. Cranked again. Again. Again... It wouldn't quite catch.
Nor fortunately did it catch fire, although when a very strong odor of gasoline wafted through the area I became very concerned about the possibility.
Finally, and barely before the battery would have refused to crank again, the engine stuttered and coughed and belched and then vomited an enormous cloud of blue and black smoke, almost all of which drifted in through the open door of my room.
He drove off.
I completed my own load out and departed.
Although Colorado and thus dad's house were to the north, at the end of the lodge drive I headed south, rode back down to Alpine, and hung the left onto US-180. I'd considered stopping at the Bear Wallow, which I'm quite certain would have served up an excellent breakfast. But for various reasons I'd decided not to; partly it was the political climate, but mostly it was because I wanted to ride early as much as possible before traffic increased -- not that I was expecting much. I'd filled my thermos with coffee back at the lodge, so I'd be able to stop for the occasional cup any time I wished, despite that I'd mostly be on nearly uninhabited Zuni and Navajo reservation land where roadside eateries would be rare.
I quickly settled into a "best ride ever" groove. It was a brilliant sunny day that had already warmed up to nearly perfect; the forecast was for that exact condition to last all day. My tunes were on; the Bose system was once again working as well as I'd hoped it would when I bought it for this purpose, but in practice have found limited riding situations in which it's actually been able to perform up to expectation.
And as the winding road uncurled beneath Therese's wheels, it felt good to be on my own.
I dearly love L&J&G and riding with them is far too rare a thing. I savor every minute.
But in Larry's own words, "I'm one of my favorite riding companions." There's nothing like the total freedom of riding a motorcycle down an open road with no need to make an explanation or negotiate a decision.
On top of all that, I was about to add some new lines to My Map. I was now in a part of the country I'd never seen or ridden, although Therese and I had been through some of it before.
If that last sentence didn't confuse you, keep re-reading it until it does.
The only time I'd headed north and east on NM-12 from the junction of US-180 was in 2013. Therese and I were on a flatbed transporter heading for Albuquerque. It was sometime well after full dark and the driver was hauling ass. The only thing I saw until we got to I-25 were blurs of deer, coyote, cattle, sheep, and other unidentified but often quite large creatures momentarily revealed by the headlights of the hurtling truck.
This morning was the opposite of that frequently terrifying journey. I could see all the often dramatic desert vistas, and Therese was running beautifully rather than utterly inert. I was enjoying a fine ride rather than enduring the grinding disappointment of my tour having been abruptly interrupted and deep worry about the severity of a mechatronic problem yet to be diagnosed.
At Apache Creek I turned to a more northbound heading on NM-32 and followed it through low canyons and hills that gradually settled into an increasingly flat landscape. I jogged over to NM-36 at Quernado, a tiny cluster of community that seemed familiar because I'd previewed it on Googlemaps street view to get a feel for both where to make the turns and whether gas might be available if I needed it.
I turned east on NM-117, became a high plains zoomer.
The plains presently became what is called El Malpais ("the badland"). The road morphed into a thread winding through "The Narrows", a path between the steep slopes of the mesa to my right and a ferociously jagged lava field to my left that would have been impassable by any type of wheeled vehicle, and damned difficult to even walk over. This area is considered so useless for any constructive purpose that it's spent time as a bombing range and was short-listed as a site for the first atomic weapon test. But they ultimately decided to detonate the experimental nuke much farther to the south, in a desert not merely "bad" but known as the Jornada del Muerto..."journey of the dead man".
The road swung around a spur of the mesa revealing a sign for some kind of scenic attraction. It was about time for another sip of coffee so I pulled in to discover I'd arrived at the La Ventana Natural Arch.
Despite my earlier comments, I do sometimes make plans every bit as detailed as Larry's. He and I both certainly take full advantage of Googlemaps terrain mode and street view, so I was aware that after the high plains this road would wind alongside the mesa and other interesting wrinkles in the earth's crust. I'd been looking forward to getting my first look at this particular scenery.
But I'd never zoomed the map in close enough to spot the natural arch.
The arch was visible from the parking lot but I decided to take the 1/2 mile scenic hike, thinking I'd get right up under it. This meant it was time to climb out of all my riding togs and peel off the long underwear I'd been wearing since the morning's chilly start, but hadn't felt the need to remove even though the temperature had warmed up quite nicely. I traded my riding boots for walking shoes. After cable-locking my jacket and helmet to the bike (admitting that I do take some precautions against gear theft) I pulled out my wide-brim hat and sunglasses, grabbed my canteen, and headed up the trail.
L&J were heading back to the valley and had to be there in time for a dental appointment, which struck me as a particularly bad reason to force the end of a tour regardless of whether a return to work loomed over the following day.
G was not facing the prospect of dental or any other kind of work, but was returning to Phoenix anyway and would ride with them for some fraction of the trip. He had declined without explanation my invitation to join me for a loop into Colorado.
I was in no particular hurry; I moved Therese out into the sun where the frost would melt more quickly, milled around while the trio loaded up, shot hand-held GoPro videos of their departure, then took a shower and packed up.
The only other guest at Tal-Wi-Wi was a gentleman driving a 1970-ish Ford F100 pickup, very clean with a nice set of wheels. L&J&G&I had chatted with him the previous evening; he was from Tucson and was up here scouting his hunting territory.
As I began loading up Therese, the hunter was loading his truck. Chatter resumed, and after some pleasantries we got on the subject of where we might want to live, if not where we already did.
"I don't have any plans to move," I said, "But if I did Colorado is the only place that interests me."
He nodded. "Yes, I've thought about Colorado. But it's too liberal."
Echoes of last evening's funk. I really didn't want to get into a political discussion, and certainly not an argument, on this otherwise fine morning. But I wasn't going to give any ground, either.
"That's not a problem for me," I replied.
My response had the desired effect of returning the conversation to idle chatter that soon evaporated completely as he finished loading and got into his truck.
But it didn't start. He cranked. Cranked again. Again. Again... It wouldn't quite catch.
Nor fortunately did it catch fire, although when a very strong odor of gasoline wafted through the area I became very concerned about the possibility.
Finally, and barely before the battery would have refused to crank again, the engine stuttered and coughed and belched and then vomited an enormous cloud of blue and black smoke, almost all of which drifted in through the open door of my room.
He drove off.
I completed my own load out and departed.
Although Colorado and thus dad's house were to the north, at the end of the lodge drive I headed south, rode back down to Alpine, and hung the left onto US-180. I'd considered stopping at the Bear Wallow, which I'm quite certain would have served up an excellent breakfast. But for various reasons I'd decided not to; partly it was the political climate, but mostly it was because I wanted to ride early as much as possible before traffic increased -- not that I was expecting much. I'd filled my thermos with coffee back at the lodge, so I'd be able to stop for the occasional cup any time I wished, despite that I'd mostly be on nearly uninhabited Zuni and Navajo reservation land where roadside eateries would be rare.
I quickly settled into a "best ride ever" groove. It was a brilliant sunny day that had already warmed up to nearly perfect; the forecast was for that exact condition to last all day. My tunes were on; the Bose system was once again working as well as I'd hoped it would when I bought it for this purpose, but in practice have found limited riding situations in which it's actually been able to perform up to expectation.
And as the winding road uncurled beneath Therese's wheels, it felt good to be on my own.
I dearly love L&J&G and riding with them is far too rare a thing. I savor every minute.
But in Larry's own words, "I'm one of my favorite riding companions." There's nothing like the total freedom of riding a motorcycle down an open road with no need to make an explanation or negotiate a decision.
On top of all that, I was about to add some new lines to My Map. I was now in a part of the country I'd never seen or ridden, although Therese and I had been through some of it before.
If that last sentence didn't confuse you, keep re-reading it until it does.
The only time I'd headed north and east on NM-12 from the junction of US-180 was in 2013. Therese and I were on a flatbed transporter heading for Albuquerque. It was sometime well after full dark and the driver was hauling ass. The only thing I saw until we got to I-25 were blurs of deer, coyote, cattle, sheep, and other unidentified but often quite large creatures momentarily revealed by the headlights of the hurtling truck.
This morning was the opposite of that frequently terrifying journey. I could see all the often dramatic desert vistas, and Therese was running beautifully rather than utterly inert. I was enjoying a fine ride rather than enduring the grinding disappointment of my tour having been abruptly interrupted and deep worry about the severity of a mechatronic problem yet to be diagnosed.
At Apache Creek I turned to a more northbound heading on NM-32 and followed it through low canyons and hills that gradually settled into an increasingly flat landscape. I jogged over to NM-36 at Quernado, a tiny cluster of community that seemed familiar because I'd previewed it on Googlemaps street view to get a feel for both where to make the turns and whether gas might be available if I needed it.
I turned east on NM-117, became a high plains zoomer.
The plains presently became what is called El Malpais ("the badland"). The road morphed into a thread winding through "The Narrows", a path between the steep slopes of the mesa to my right and a ferociously jagged lava field to my left that would have been impassable by any type of wheeled vehicle, and damned difficult to even walk over. This area is considered so useless for any constructive purpose that it's spent time as a bombing range and was short-listed as a site for the first atomic weapon test. But they ultimately decided to detonate the experimental nuke much farther to the south, in a desert not merely "bad" but known as the Jornada del Muerto..."journey of the dead man".
The road swung around a spur of the mesa revealing a sign for some kind of scenic attraction. It was about time for another sip of coffee so I pulled in to discover I'd arrived at the La Ventana Natural Arch.
Despite my earlier comments, I do sometimes make plans every bit as detailed as Larry's. He and I both certainly take full advantage of Googlemaps terrain mode and street view, so I was aware that after the high plains this road would wind alongside the mesa and other interesting wrinkles in the earth's crust. I'd been looking forward to getting my first look at this particular scenery.
But I'd never zoomed the map in close enough to spot the natural arch.
The arch was visible from the parking lot but I decided to take the 1/2 mile scenic hike, thinking I'd get right up under it. This meant it was time to climb out of all my riding togs and peel off the long underwear I'd been wearing since the morning's chilly start, but hadn't felt the need to remove even though the temperature had warmed up quite nicely. I traded my riding boots for walking shoes. After cable-locking my jacket and helmet to the bike (admitting that I do take some precautions against gear theft) I pulled out my wide-brim hat and sunglasses, grabbed my canteen, and headed up the trail.
La Ventana Natural Arch, El Malpais National Conservation Area, New Mexico
The path ended quite a ways from the arch, at signs denying access to anyone who agreed to respect them. I briefly considered such disrespect, but glanced at my watch and decided it would be best to keep moving. I still had a lot of ground to cover this day.
Back in the parking lot I met a recently discharged vet from Missouri who was passing through this country for the first time. We agreed it was an amazing land.
It was another twenty miles to the intersection of I-40 a few miles east of Grants, and my low fuel alert was on for all of it. But I knew it was at least a bit on the pessimistic side and my range display was still in double digits when I rolled into the gas station which during my route planning I had carefully ensured not only existed but was operational.
Then it was west on historic Route 66, which hereabouts was the interstate's frontage road and business loop. I wasn't sure I'd want to stay on it for as long as I potentially might; my route plan was to make that decision based on traffic and congestion and pavement conditions. I've been on stretches of 66 back east that simply weren't worth adding as lines to My Map because of those factors.
I did want to take advantage of a pass through Grants to get my first real meal of the day. I'd already determined there were no Thai offerings so I just kept an eye out for any place with character. At the El Ranchero I found loads of exactly that and an excellent platter that included a green corn tamale, which is a rare treat indeed. Smothered in red & green, of course. If the place hasn't been there since long before the interstate I don't want to know.
Back in the parking lot I met a recently discharged vet from Missouri who was passing through this country for the first time. We agreed it was an amazing land.
It was another twenty miles to the intersection of I-40 a few miles east of Grants, and my low fuel alert was on for all of it. But I knew it was at least a bit on the pessimistic side and my range display was still in double digits when I rolled into the gas station which during my route planning I had carefully ensured not only existed but was operational.
Then it was west on historic Route 66, which hereabouts was the interstate's frontage road and business loop. I wasn't sure I'd want to stay on it for as long as I potentially might; my route plan was to make that decision based on traffic and congestion and pavement conditions. I've been on stretches of 66 back east that simply weren't worth adding as lines to My Map because of those factors.
I did want to take advantage of a pass through Grants to get my first real meal of the day. I'd already determined there were no Thai offerings so I just kept an eye out for any place with character. At the El Ranchero I found loads of exactly that and an excellent platter that included a green corn tamale, which is a rare treat indeed. Smothered in red & green, of course. If the place hasn't been there since long before the interstate I don't want to know.
Therese at El Ranchero, Grants, New Mexico
Leaving Grants it became clear this was a stretch of Rte. 66 that's really worth riding. The traffic was all on I-40. The pavement was decent and I was entertained by no less than three enormous freight trains rolling along the railway close by my throttle hand.
At Thoreau my Rte. 66 segment ended as I turned north on NM-371. I've been making a habit of riding through Navajo for the past couple years when shuttling to Phoenix from my dad's house in Colorado. But I hadn't been on this particular road before.
As such roads go, it was ok. Long views, occasionally featuring or framed by interesting rock outcroppings. A fair degree of curvature. Periodic clusters of res infrastructure but few if any stops. As one of the principal roads through the res it had more traffic than I see on the shunpike routes I usually take, but it wasn't bad and kept moving at a decent clip.
As I got close to Farmington I was keeping a very close eye out for Reservation Road 7010, where I planned to jog east to NM-550, then north to Bloomfield to completely bypass Farmington. I'd been careful to avoid Farmington every time I'd come through this territory; there was just no good reason to subject myself to the congestion. Despite my attentiveness I managed to blow by the crossroad without even seeing it. Once I realized I must have passed it I considered swinging around but by then traffic had picked up considerably and there weren't really a lot of great opportunities to make the maneuver. And then I was swooping through some curves with kind of a cool view of the valley of the San Juan River.
I thought to myself, "Well, I guess I'll finally find out what Farmington is like."
Unfortunately, it wasn't bad.
If it had been I would have turned around then and there.
Instead I hung a right on US-64, which bypassed downtown, and joined the traffic which was fairly heavy -- it was just coming on rush hour -- but moving at a reasonable pace along the divided four lane. This went on until about halfway to Bloomfield.
At which point the construction zone started, the route choked to two narrow lanes, and traffic came to a dead stop.
I cursed but as the jam inched ahead I once again made the mistake of not turning around.
I kept thinking I'd find a way around it, but there simply weren't any side roads that went anywhere. Checking the map in my phone confirmed more miles of red ahead, but by then it was too late to reap any benefit from retracing my route and taking 7010 as I'd originally intended.
I became increasingly furious with the situation; it was really eating into my remaining daylight, the availability of which I'd been treating too casually between my lackadaisical departure from Tal-Wi-Wi and my hike to the arch. On top of that I'd made a mental miscalculation due in part to the inconsistent definition of time zones used by Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado.
The construction ended shortly before I reached US-550, where I'd intended to get gas. But at that point I was in the wrong lane to make the turn toward the Conoco station with which I'd become familiar during two previous rides along this route.
I continued east based on the increasingly tenuous recollection that there was one station out near the edge of town, a station I'd never used because it was too low-grade and on the wrong side of the roadway.
But when I rounded a curve and the view changed to a sweep of uninhabited land I realized my memory of a lonely rural filling station was nothing but wishful thinking. Checking the map on my phone confirmed it.
Finally I turned around.
Having now squandered even more of my precious daylight, I headed all the way back to US-550, fueled up, and rode east again.
At least I knew that once I did get past the city limits, the next segment was a long stretch of fun road across open country where I could make very good time, which I did indeed.
But it wasn't good enough.
The construction jam, exacerbated by my failure to fuel at the right time, had robbed me of at least an hour. By the time I turned north on US-84 east of Dulce I was riding in twilight, which is when demerits start accumulating at the rate of a point every two minutes.
Before I reached Pagosa Springs it was full dark, and the demerits started clocking in every 60 seconds.
As the sun disappeared behind the mountains it had begun to get chilly, and I knew when I crested Wolf Creek Pass at nearly 11,000 ft. the conditions would be quite bracing. I thought about pulling over and donning my thermal layer, which would have resolved the comfort issue; but it was easier to just keep riding under the probably wildly incorrect justification that putting on the layer, which would have involved the unappealing requirement of stripping nearly naked in the cold and dark somewhere alongside the road, would take me nearly as long as it would to just get up and over the mountain.
So I shivered all the way. At the pass the air temperature dipped to just below freezing. Therese's ice warning was lit up much of the way, but I knew the weather had been dry for days so I wasn't particularly worried. Still, it was entirely possible water could be flowing across the roadway so ice was a very real danger. It would also likely occur right in the apex of a corner, which is not simply Murphy's Law but basic physics.
All that said, the final segment of the day's ride was as uneventful as I could have hoped. I tread carefully, and kept my eye out for deer, of which I certainly saw a few. At least the lack of traffic (who would be stupid enough to drive Wolf Creek Pass in the dark?) allowed liberal use of Therese's formidable headlight array.
My final miscalculation of the day was when I passed by Ramon's, a Mexican restaurant on the south end of South Fork. Dad would have been expecting me to arrive at his place before dark, so he'd surely be wondering where I was. I could have stopped at the restaurant, which would have been my first opportunity to get warm, and called dad from there; perhaps he'd have been up for the idea of driving down for dinner.
But instead I decided just to push on the last few miles.
After rolling into dad's and the usual reunion hugs and decompression, my mistake in passing Ramon's became evident when we eventually started thinking about dinner. It was too late. South Fork was about to roll up the sidewalks and we didn't want to barge in on service staff scant minutes before closing.
Nor was there much to choose from at home; the larder was uncharacteristically bare. So we scrounged up something along the lines of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
There was one beer in the fridge, an Alamosa Amber that I was eager to savor.
Too bad I knocked it off the end table, wasting almost all of it.
Times when I'm that clumsy make me wonder how I could consider it remotely reasonable to think I'm reliably capable of controlling a high performance motorcycle.
At Thoreau my Rte. 66 segment ended as I turned north on NM-371. I've been making a habit of riding through Navajo for the past couple years when shuttling to Phoenix from my dad's house in Colorado. But I hadn't been on this particular road before.
As such roads go, it was ok. Long views, occasionally featuring or framed by interesting rock outcroppings. A fair degree of curvature. Periodic clusters of res infrastructure but few if any stops. As one of the principal roads through the res it had more traffic than I see on the shunpike routes I usually take, but it wasn't bad and kept moving at a decent clip.
As I got close to Farmington I was keeping a very close eye out for Reservation Road 7010, where I planned to jog east to NM-550, then north to Bloomfield to completely bypass Farmington. I'd been careful to avoid Farmington every time I'd come through this territory; there was just no good reason to subject myself to the congestion. Despite my attentiveness I managed to blow by the crossroad without even seeing it. Once I realized I must have passed it I considered swinging around but by then traffic had picked up considerably and there weren't really a lot of great opportunities to make the maneuver. And then I was swooping through some curves with kind of a cool view of the valley of the San Juan River.
I thought to myself, "Well, I guess I'll finally find out what Farmington is like."
Unfortunately, it wasn't bad.
If it had been I would have turned around then and there.
Instead I hung a right on US-64, which bypassed downtown, and joined the traffic which was fairly heavy -- it was just coming on rush hour -- but moving at a reasonable pace along the divided four lane. This went on until about halfway to Bloomfield.
At which point the construction zone started, the route choked to two narrow lanes, and traffic came to a dead stop.
I cursed but as the jam inched ahead I once again made the mistake of not turning around.
I kept thinking I'd find a way around it, but there simply weren't any side roads that went anywhere. Checking the map in my phone confirmed more miles of red ahead, but by then it was too late to reap any benefit from retracing my route and taking 7010 as I'd originally intended.
I became increasingly furious with the situation; it was really eating into my remaining daylight, the availability of which I'd been treating too casually between my lackadaisical departure from Tal-Wi-Wi and my hike to the arch. On top of that I'd made a mental miscalculation due in part to the inconsistent definition of time zones used by Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado.
The construction ended shortly before I reached US-550, where I'd intended to get gas. But at that point I was in the wrong lane to make the turn toward the Conoco station with which I'd become familiar during two previous rides along this route.
I continued east based on the increasingly tenuous recollection that there was one station out near the edge of town, a station I'd never used because it was too low-grade and on the wrong side of the roadway.
But when I rounded a curve and the view changed to a sweep of uninhabited land I realized my memory of a lonely rural filling station was nothing but wishful thinking. Checking the map on my phone confirmed it.
Finally I turned around.
Having now squandered even more of my precious daylight, I headed all the way back to US-550, fueled up, and rode east again.
At least I knew that once I did get past the city limits, the next segment was a long stretch of fun road across open country where I could make very good time, which I did indeed.
But it wasn't good enough.
The construction jam, exacerbated by my failure to fuel at the right time, had robbed me of at least an hour. By the time I turned north on US-84 east of Dulce I was riding in twilight, which is when demerits start accumulating at the rate of a point every two minutes.
Before I reached Pagosa Springs it was full dark, and the demerits started clocking in every 60 seconds.
As the sun disappeared behind the mountains it had begun to get chilly, and I knew when I crested Wolf Creek Pass at nearly 11,000 ft. the conditions would be quite bracing. I thought about pulling over and donning my thermal layer, which would have resolved the comfort issue; but it was easier to just keep riding under the probably wildly incorrect justification that putting on the layer, which would have involved the unappealing requirement of stripping nearly naked in the cold and dark somewhere alongside the road, would take me nearly as long as it would to just get up and over the mountain.
So I shivered all the way. At the pass the air temperature dipped to just below freezing. Therese's ice warning was lit up much of the way, but I knew the weather had been dry for days so I wasn't particularly worried. Still, it was entirely possible water could be flowing across the roadway so ice was a very real danger. It would also likely occur right in the apex of a corner, which is not simply Murphy's Law but basic physics.
All that said, the final segment of the day's ride was as uneventful as I could have hoped. I tread carefully, and kept my eye out for deer, of which I certainly saw a few. At least the lack of traffic (who would be stupid enough to drive Wolf Creek Pass in the dark?) allowed liberal use of Therese's formidable headlight array.
My final miscalculation of the day was when I passed by Ramon's, a Mexican restaurant on the south end of South Fork. Dad would have been expecting me to arrive at his place before dark, so he'd surely be wondering where I was. I could have stopped at the restaurant, which would have been my first opportunity to get warm, and called dad from there; perhaps he'd have been up for the idea of driving down for dinner.
But instead I decided just to push on the last few miles.
After rolling into dad's and the usual reunion hugs and decompression, my mistake in passing Ramon's became evident when we eventually started thinking about dinner. It was too late. South Fork was about to roll up the sidewalks and we didn't want to barge in on service staff scant minutes before closing.
Nor was there much to choose from at home; the larder was uncharacteristically bare. So we scrounged up something along the lines of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
There was one beer in the fridge, an Alamosa Amber that I was eager to savor.
Too bad I knocked it off the end table, wasting almost all of it.
Times when I'm that clumsy make me wonder how I could consider it remotely reasonable to think I'm reliably capable of controlling a high performance motorcycle.
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