Sunday, October 6, 2019
The temperature overnight had dipped below freezing, providing a rationale for leisurely departure other than simply not wanting to leave Telluride.
Best to allow time for what promised to be another perfect day's sunshine to phase-change any random puddles that might have become solid during the night.
But really it was the lingering effects of the previous night's liquids that most significantly caused me to milk loading-out to the very last second before checkout time.
Once packed I rode up to Colorado Avenue where there wasn't even room for a motorcycle, so I parked Therese on a side street in a spot that would have caused Larry to skip breakfast and ask for someone to just bring back a doggy bag. He'd have spent the time shooting photographs from within surveillance range of the machines.
I took one picture.
The temperature overnight had dipped below freezing, providing a rationale for leisurely departure other than simply not wanting to leave Telluride.
Best to allow time for what promised to be another perfect day's sunshine to phase-change any random puddles that might have become solid during the night.
But really it was the lingering effects of the previous night's liquids that most significantly caused me to milk loading-out to the very last second before checkout time.
Once packed I rode up to Colorado Avenue where there wasn't even room for a motorcycle, so I parked Therese on a side street in a spot that would have caused Larry to skip breakfast and ask for someone to just bring back a doggy bag. He'd have spent the time shooting photographs from within surveillance range of the machines.
I took one picture.
Then I went around the corner to La Cocina De Luz, made space for myself beside an accumulation of stainless steel food service tubs at the end of the counter, enjoyed something similar to huevos rancheros.
After breakfast I walked across to the hardware in another fruitless attempt to find a tool roll.
It was time to go. The next hour or so was yet another Best Ride Ever. South on the deliciously swooping curves of CO-145, the walls of the Dolores River valley were mountainsides glowing with aspens at peak color.
After breakfast I walked across to the hardware in another fruitless attempt to find a tool roll.
It was time to go. The next hour or so was yet another Best Ride Ever. South on the deliciously swooping curves of CO-145, the walls of the Dolores River valley were mountainsides glowing with aspens at peak color.
Alas, arrival in Cortez meant Colorado was effectively in the rear view mirror.
I kept moving through town until I found a Chevron station so I could fill Therese with not only fuel but a bottle of Techron, not because she seemed in particular need of it but as a general tonic. On the south edge of town I hung a right and set off westward into the Ute Mountain Reservation, a detour that I'd taken every time I'd come this way since dad and Cathy tipped me to it a few years ago.
The route began as sparsely-populated desert hillsides and small farmsteads nestled into a narrow band of riparian oases. A lot of tight twistiness that would be fun to get sporty with, but for the excessive possibility of meeting farm implements, livestock, pets, or pedestrians; there are plenty of school bus stops along the way.
Eventually this territory transitioned into a desolate moonscape peppered with isolated habitations and occasionally operational petroleum wells. Not a place I'd want to live, or even ride through on a hot day, but a fast red motorcycle can blow through it virtually unobserved and with little chance of encountering large animals.
Now in Utah, dramatic scenery gradually revealed itself and continued to escalate in magnificence as I traveled the narrow and largely unknown roads that connect microscopic outposts like Aneth, Montezuma Creek, and Bluff, where I turned left onto US-163 and headed south through Mexican Hat, eventually arriving at that most iconic of southwestern landscapes, Monument Valley.
I kept moving through town until I found a Chevron station so I could fill Therese with not only fuel but a bottle of Techron, not because she seemed in particular need of it but as a general tonic. On the south edge of town I hung a right and set off westward into the Ute Mountain Reservation, a detour that I'd taken every time I'd come this way since dad and Cathy tipped me to it a few years ago.
The route began as sparsely-populated desert hillsides and small farmsteads nestled into a narrow band of riparian oases. A lot of tight twistiness that would be fun to get sporty with, but for the excessive possibility of meeting farm implements, livestock, pets, or pedestrians; there are plenty of school bus stops along the way.
Eventually this territory transitioned into a desolate moonscape peppered with isolated habitations and occasionally operational petroleum wells. Not a place I'd want to live, or even ride through on a hot day, but a fast red motorcycle can blow through it virtually unobserved and with little chance of encountering large animals.
Now in Utah, dramatic scenery gradually revealed itself and continued to escalate in magnificence as I traveled the narrow and largely unknown roads that connect microscopic outposts like Aneth, Montezuma Creek, and Bluff, where I turned left onto US-163 and headed south through Mexican Hat, eventually arriving at that most iconic of southwestern landscapes, Monument Valley.
I stopped in Kayenta for fuel and a snack that I ate sitting on a parking curb. After that it was a lot of long boring roads, mostly bereft of curves, increasingly heavy with traffic, and with the inevitable stretch of riding directly into the westering sun. But unlike so many superficially similar rides taken when I lived in Arizona, at least I wasn't doing it on a stinking hot summer day, and I now wore a helmet with a highly effective internal sun visor. Through it, as opposed to through streams of sweat draining into my eyes, I could actually enjoy the often dramatic desert vistas.
There was no reason to stop in Tuba City. I rolled through and hung a left south on US-89, and an hour or so later ended the day's ride on the highly convenient north end of Flagstaff when I arrived at the home of my cousin Eric, his wife Jen, and their new "res rescue" mutt Buddie.
I use the word "mutt" with nothing but the deep fondness gained from having spent half a century living with mutts.
Mutts are the best.
There was no reason to stop in Tuba City. I rolled through and hung a left south on US-89, and an hour or so later ended the day's ride on the highly convenient north end of Flagstaff when I arrived at the home of my cousin Eric, his wife Jen, and their new "res rescue" mutt Buddie.
I use the word "mutt" with nothing but the deep fondness gained from having spent half a century living with mutts.
Mutts are the best.
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