Return to Michigan Day 2: Thursday July 1, 2021.
My ride up the Silver Thread wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier – if only because the tires weren’t quite as fresh.
Everything else was pretty much the same as on that GOAT ride, including the lack of destination.
After gassing in Gunnison, where I met two men and a woman on a trio of BMW R1200GSs heading back to Houston from the BMW MOA national rally in Montana, I continued north and then turned east at Almont. This would be a new line on my map, which I’d discovered only because the interwebs (unlike the years’ old paper map in my tank bag) knew the last few miles over Cottonwood Pass had recently been paved. When Googlemaps surprised me by defaulting the route for travel between Crested Butte and Leadville, I studied the satellite view carefully and quickly realized it was a must-do.
Can’t say I had the road much to myself; it’s a pretty popular place, a classic Colorado riparian playground along the Taylor River with quite an encampment further up at Taylor Park Reservoir. The pavement was in excellent condition and when traffic thinned above Taylor Park I had lots of good opportunities to carve curves on the way to the pass.
My ride up the Silver Thread wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few weeks earlier – if only because the tires weren’t quite as fresh.
Everything else was pretty much the same as on that GOAT ride, including the lack of destination.
After gassing in Gunnison, where I met two men and a woman on a trio of BMW R1200GSs heading back to Houston from the BMW MOA national rally in Montana, I continued north and then turned east at Almont. This would be a new line on my map, which I’d discovered only because the interwebs (unlike the years’ old paper map in my tank bag) knew the last few miles over Cottonwood Pass had recently been paved. When Googlemaps surprised me by defaulting the route for travel between Crested Butte and Leadville, I studied the satellite view carefully and quickly realized it was a must-do.
Can’t say I had the road much to myself; it’s a pretty popular place, a classic Colorado riparian playground along the Taylor River with quite an encampment further up at Taylor Park Reservoir. The pavement was in excellent condition and when traffic thinned above Taylor Park I had lots of good opportunities to carve curves on the way to the pass.
Therese at Cottonwood Pass, elevation 12,126 feet. (3696 m).
On Cottonwood Summit Peak.
Once again I’d departed the San Juan Mountains having not climbed 14,309 foot Uncompahgre “next time it’s personal” Peak.
But at least on this day I bagged a 12.6'er.
A rather hollow victory, having only hiked about 0.2 miles and ascended 500 feet from the parking lot.
But nice to find my latest riding boots are good for rough walking.
But at least on this day I bagged a 12.6'er.
A rather hollow victory, having only hiked about 0.2 miles and ascended 500 feet from the parking lot.
But nice to find my latest riding boots are good for rough walking.
The Continental Divide Trail, from Cottonwood Summit Peak.
View north from Cottonwood Summit Peak.
Coming down from the summit I saw a BMW R50 had arrived at the pass sometime after I’d headed up. I strolled over to talk with the rider, who lives in Gunnison. John and his family had long owned a large collection of BMWs. This bike was unusual, of approximately /2 vintage and design, yet not designated “/2”.
The east side of the pass involved more and tighter switchbacks than had the ride up; I suspect this road was paved many years earlier than the western slope.
The east side of the pass involved more and tighter switchbacks than had the ride up; I suspect this road was paved many years earlier than the western slope.
Reaching the outskirts of Buena Vista, traffic piled up and Therese began acting up.
Riding into the middle of town looking for a sign containing the word “brewery” was possibly a mistake.
Though it was only Thursday, the Independence Day holiday was clearly in swing. As I crawled along at walking speed behind tourist traffic, passing block after block of completely full parking spaces, Therese manifested all the worst symptoms of her malady. Thanks to the wide-open exhaust flap she drew plenty of attention to what must have seemed like a bike ridden by an utterly incompetent motorcyclist.
When I thought I’d hit the edge of town and was going to just keep riding out – just go anywhere to get away from stop signs I was increasingly tempted to simply ignore – I found the Eddyline Brewery. There was even an empty space at the end of the curb right across the street, just big enough for Therese to lurch into.
I set about securing my gear, not because I was afraid anyone would steal it but because I knew it would blow away if I didn’t. The unpleasant weather I’d seen lurking to the north ever since I stood atop Cottonwood Pass was making itself known by sending clouds of dust down the streets, and the storms would almost certainly only get bigger and move closer.
I was approached by a gentleman who’d been having espresso or gelato or something-o at the bistro I’d landed in front of. He was a fellow BMW rider and when I made a disparaging comment about Therese’s current performance, he sympathized completely; his late model boxer apparently had a virtually identical problem.
Not for the first time I thought about a Yamaha FJR, and said so.
Riding into the middle of town looking for a sign containing the word “brewery” was possibly a mistake.
Though it was only Thursday, the Independence Day holiday was clearly in swing. As I crawled along at walking speed behind tourist traffic, passing block after block of completely full parking spaces, Therese manifested all the worst symptoms of her malady. Thanks to the wide-open exhaust flap she drew plenty of attention to what must have seemed like a bike ridden by an utterly incompetent motorcyclist.
When I thought I’d hit the edge of town and was going to just keep riding out – just go anywhere to get away from stop signs I was increasingly tempted to simply ignore – I found the Eddyline Brewery. There was even an empty space at the end of the curb right across the street, just big enough for Therese to lurch into.
I set about securing my gear, not because I was afraid anyone would steal it but because I knew it would blow away if I didn’t. The unpleasant weather I’d seen lurking to the north ever since I stood atop Cottonwood Pass was making itself known by sending clouds of dust down the streets, and the storms would almost certainly only get bigger and move closer.
I was approached by a gentleman who’d been having espresso or gelato or something-o at the bistro I’d landed in front of. He was a fellow BMW rider and when I made a disparaging comment about Therese’s current performance, he sympathized completely; his late model boxer apparently had a virtually identical problem.
Not for the first time I thought about a Yamaha FJR, and said so.
Eddyline Restaurant and Brewery, Buena Vista, Colorado.
It was a long wait to get into the place, but worth it. Perched at a tiny high-top I wasn’t impeding the emplacement of exclusively larger groups that often included dogs who were restricted to patio seating but got there by walking through the restaurant. I didn’t feel rushed, especially since I kept ordering things, and figured what remained of my riding day would be fully eroded by weather at any moment.
Kick’n Back Amber was just what I needed to take the edge off what had been a fantastic ride until it had so rapidly and badly nosedived in the final few miles. I drank a second while working most of the way through a gigantic Rueben and fries. To give the alcohol more time to metabolize, I had a root beer float for dessert.
The longer Therese sat, experience suggested, the more likely she’d behave when I started her again.
I checked the Oracle of Weather Radar which confirmed what I already thought I knew. I’d have liked to go much farther north to Poudre Canyon, my favorite way out of Colorado, but almost everything in that direction was submerged and would remain so. My only good options were to head south or east. South was a safe bet but would be a significant detour. To the east storms would probably close in as the afternoon progressed, but at that moment a clear-sky route existed all the way to the eastern slopes of the front range.
That route also favored my need to minimize traffic, congestion, and stops between wherever I was and Michigan. After scrutinizing Googlemaps, it was apparent my best route out of Buena Vista was to launch Therese straight up the street she was already pointed at, and when it ended just keep going down what looked on the satellite layer like little more than a two-track across an open field. This path would shortly intersect Arizona Street which would be an open ride south along the Arkansas River for a couple miles to US-285. At that crossroad, just one left turn would have me heading opposite what I knew would be a continuous stream of traffic from Denver. For the next hundred miles of fast easy riding and great scenery there would be only a handful of stoplights, and little traffic in my way.
After that nothing mattered; it would be freeway all the way home, and the forecast for the next couple days on the plains was surprisingly favorable.
Kick’n Back Amber was just what I needed to take the edge off what had been a fantastic ride until it had so rapidly and badly nosedived in the final few miles. I drank a second while working most of the way through a gigantic Rueben and fries. To give the alcohol more time to metabolize, I had a root beer float for dessert.
The longer Therese sat, experience suggested, the more likely she’d behave when I started her again.
I checked the Oracle of Weather Radar which confirmed what I already thought I knew. I’d have liked to go much farther north to Poudre Canyon, my favorite way out of Colorado, but almost everything in that direction was submerged and would remain so. My only good options were to head south or east. South was a safe bet but would be a significant detour. To the east storms would probably close in as the afternoon progressed, but at that moment a clear-sky route existed all the way to the eastern slopes of the front range.
That route also favored my need to minimize traffic, congestion, and stops between wherever I was and Michigan. After scrutinizing Googlemaps, it was apparent my best route out of Buena Vista was to launch Therese straight up the street she was already pointed at, and when it ended just keep going down what looked on the satellite layer like little more than a two-track across an open field. This path would shortly intersect Arizona Street which would be an open ride south along the Arkansas River for a couple miles to US-285. At that crossroad, just one left turn would have me heading opposite what I knew would be a continuous stream of traffic from Denver. For the next hundred miles of fast easy riding and great scenery there would be only a handful of stoplights, and little traffic in my way.
After that nothing mattered; it would be freeway all the way home, and the forecast for the next couple days on the plains was surprisingly favorable.
I stopped at a lodge near Bailey I knew from a prior trip, but “no vacancy” was what I expected and what I got. There were few other options between there and Denver. Unless I wanted to poke around for a campsite and risk the potentially violent storms that were virtually assured to roll in, one more night in the mountains was not in the cards.
I got rained on a bit coming down the hill at Morrison, where I pulled over and reserved a room at the Hampton in Littleton.
I got rained on a bit coming down the hill at Morrison, where I pulled over and reserved a room at the Hampton in Littleton.
Nobody suggested I shouldn't leave Therese parked in the portico all night, so that's exactly what I did. Given the heavy rain that rolled in immediately after I did, it was a double plus.
Larry would definitely approve of this room.
The state line was still over 200 miles away, but my perspective was that Colorado had been a great time which was now over.
Larry would definitely approve of this room.
The state line was still over 200 miles away, but my perspective was that Colorado had been a great time which was now over.
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