Sunday, June 3, 2018
In my previous post I referred to "My riding* companions".
Gary was on his KTM 990, but *Larry's bronchitis had lingered and so even before I left Phoenix he'd resigned himself to being too ill to ride and had rented a black Cadillac XTS to do the tour. This at least provided lots of room for coolers full of ice and beer and food.
The Caddy also contained *Jana's riding gear which she'd packed because (aside from the financial and logistical impracticality of them doing this tour with both a car and a motorcycle) there wasn't anything keeping HER from riding. She figured if she made mooney eyes at me she might be able to sweet talk me into loaning her Therese for a few miles.
When I showed up at Monument Valley exhibiting clear symptoms of the malady that had bollixed Larry's ride, Jana modified her tactic to, "Well, it's sure a good thing I just happened to bring my gear, because if you're too sick to ride..."
In fact I felt sorry for her missing out on the kind of riding that she enjoys as much as I do, and certainly would have let her take a spin or two on Therese regardless of how I was feeling. This morning was a good opportunity for it. I was by no means too sick to ride safely, or even well. But the idea of lounging in the Caddy was not unappealing, especially considering I'd just ridden the road we'd now be taking.
In my previous post I referred to "My riding* companions".
Gary was on his KTM 990, but *Larry's bronchitis had lingered and so even before I left Phoenix he'd resigned himself to being too ill to ride and had rented a black Cadillac XTS to do the tour. This at least provided lots of room for coolers full of ice and beer and food.
The Caddy also contained *Jana's riding gear which she'd packed because (aside from the financial and logistical impracticality of them doing this tour with both a car and a motorcycle) there wasn't anything keeping HER from riding. She figured if she made mooney eyes at me she might be able to sweet talk me into loaning her Therese for a few miles.
When I showed up at Monument Valley exhibiting clear symptoms of the malady that had bollixed Larry's ride, Jana modified her tactic to, "Well, it's sure a good thing I just happened to bring my gear, because if you're too sick to ride..."
In fact I felt sorry for her missing out on the kind of riding that she enjoys as much as I do, and certainly would have let her take a spin or two on Therese regardless of how I was feeling. This morning was a good opportunity for it. I was by no means too sick to ride safely, or even well. But the idea of lounging in the Caddy was not unappealing, especially considering I'd just ridden the road we'd now be taking.
Jana and Therese at Monument Valley
So Larry and I chatted and I even napped at times. We stopped at the Twin Rocks for breakfast, then wove across a little-traveled wedge of Utah on tiny reservation back roads that I've taken 2 or 3 times now, though never in the northeast direction.
Fortunately we knew where we were going, because the Caddy's navigation system sure didn't. Larry would clearly and loudly ask for "GAS... CORTEZ... COLORADO", but despite the fact that we were pointing at Cortez and it was the only town of significant size within 50 miles, Ms. Cadillac insisted on trying to provide us with directions to Ludington Plumbing and Heating.
Eventually she admitted, "Clearly I am limited" and suggested we try again later.
Fortunately we knew where we were going, because the Caddy's navigation system sure didn't. Larry would clearly and loudly ask for "GAS... CORTEZ... COLORADO", but despite the fact that we were pointing at Cortez and it was the only town of significant size within 50 miles, Ms. Cadillac insisted on trying to provide us with directions to Ludington Plumbing and Heating.
Eventually she admitted, "Clearly I am limited" and suggested we try again later.
The Caddy, Jana with Therese, and Gary with I-don't-know-if-his-bike-has-a-name at Twin Rocks.
Larry, the Caddy, and Jana outside Telluride
We stopped in Cortez for gas and a bit of rest in Centennial Park, by which time I was ready to ride. Looking at the weather it appeared rain might be moving in, so we saddled up and skedaddled toward Telluride.
Because of our rapid departure I didn't take the time to mount my camera, which was regrettable since it was a really nice ride and as I followed Gary in close formation it would have made excellent action video. We stopped just outside Telluride and I mounted the camera then, switching it on as we rolled out...and almost immediately fell into a parade of pickup trucks; I figured I'd never use most of the footage. We were able to get past them after turning north at Placerville, but by then the looming clouds were threatening rain at any moment -- again, not the kind of idyllic ride I wanted to capture for my reminiscences, certainly not compared to the much more scenically spectacular country we'd ridden through earlier.
(I put together a movie anyway.)
Indeed, the heavens did open up as we descended into Ridgway, and brought down more than clean mountain rain; an odd whitish slurry seemed to be flowing along the wheel tracks.
As previously arranged, we pulled under the awning of the Conoco station, joining half a dozen other riders on a variety of bikes, and waited for Larry and Jana to catch up. I used the restroom and bought a Spicy Hot V8 because I wanted to be considered a paying customer and because that rasping cough had returned during the last half hour or so, and I hoped a shot of vegetable nutrients and spices wouldn't hurt.
When I came out I found Gary, following the lead of the other riders, had begun donning his rain gear.
After having lost a golden opportunity to properly memorialize the sunny and most scenic part of the day's ride with Gary, and then the irritation of encountering traffic AND rain (two things which I've gotten pretty good at avoiding), and now feeling sickness returning on top of it all, I was far too grumpy entertain the notion of opening The Bag That Must Not Be Opened and peel on my rain suit. Our destination was only 10 miles up the road and looking in that direction the rain seemed fairly trivial; although my normal riding gear doesn't even pretend to be waterproof, I figured I was already about as wet as I was going to get.
Having a good idea where we we staying, I took the lead and Gary followed me south on US-550.
As I'd expected, the rain let up somewhat, and I quickly stopped thinking about it.
Because lightning.
I hunched down behind the fairing, not in any attempt to stay dry but rather to reduce the aspect of the top of my head being the tallest, pointiest object in the vicinity. Gary and I both noticed, as we discussed later, the rarely observed phenomenon of lightning bolts dissolving into little streamers and balls of plasma. There's a good reason for this being "rarely observed"; if you can see this it means you're way too damned close to it.
But we rolled into the parking lot of the Box Canyon Inn having, as legendary Rush drummer, lyricist, and BMW motorcyclist Neil Peart would surely have commented had he been riding with us, "Cheated death once again."
Also "once again": my arrival in front of a hotel desk clerk precipitated a rapid physical and mental deterioration. I'm pretty tolerant of high altitudes, but today the bronchitis was kicking my ass, throwing me into coughing fits that left me breathless and lightheaded. My brain, no longer tasked with life-or-death decisions on a second-by-second basis, turned to mush. Later when Gary asked me what the cost of the room was so he could pay me his half, I couldn't even tell him and had no explanation for my lack of any document proving I'd paid for it.
The clerk helped explain a couple mysteries, including the odd character of the rain itself and the programmable highway sign we'd seen saying something about following a pilot car on southbound US-550. Down near Durango, and farther south in New Mexico, large fires were burning out of control, apparently with some number of people in threat of having no evacuation route. No doubt the rain still falling on us was mixed with ash.
Apparently, however, Ouray was not in imminent peril, which was as much as I needed to know.
Our room was on the second floor, and the stairs wiped me out. I collapsed into a chair and left the door open, and in due time Jana appeared with various bits of my luggage that I'd stashed in the Caddy vs. strapping onto Therese that morning.
The rain let up and Gary, ever fastidious (and in direct opposition to my own proclivities with regards to washing motorcycles, i.e., I do it as little as possible) began detailing his bike.
But he relinquished the effort when the hail started. Fortunately it was light and brief, soon changing back to fully liquid precipitation.
Eventually I felt strong enough to don my bathing suit and stagger out into the rain, a towel over my head, and made my way back to the hot tubs which were, unfortunately, located at various levels all higher than the sidewalk. But I made it up the stairs without slipping or collapsing, and settled in for a good long soak. I doubt it helped my respiratory condition any, but it didn't hurt, and sure felt good.
When I came back to the room I dried off and immediately climbed into bed, where I essentially remained until the next morning; even brief trips to the rest room left me winded. Sometimes I was wracked by chills, but fortunately they didn't last long and eventually went away completely.
My companions walked downtown to the Outlaw Streakhouse, which I was in no condition to even contemplate. But I'd noticed there was a Thai restaurant at the north end of main street, and asked for a takeout of spicy hot red curry, as much for its imagined (in my mind) medicinal properties as for sustenance. Some time later Gary returned with exactly that (and without, as Larry attempted to order on my behalf, "extra tentacles"). It was good and there was plenty of it; I kept the leftovers in the room refrigerator, knowing the sturdy plastic take-out container would hold up well in one of Larry's ice chests until I could finish the meal off.
Gary wisely spent the evening with Larry and Jana, rather than exposing himself any more than necessary to what were in all likelihood my viciously contagious exhalations.
Unfortunately we both missed Larry's calls, made just after Gary headed back to our room, advising us that on Channel 81 we could watch the Isle of Man TT, which is probably the most exciting, and almost certainly the most dangerous, motorcycle road race in the world.
Because of our rapid departure I didn't take the time to mount my camera, which was regrettable since it was a really nice ride and as I followed Gary in close formation it would have made excellent action video. We stopped just outside Telluride and I mounted the camera then, switching it on as we rolled out...and almost immediately fell into a parade of pickup trucks; I figured I'd never use most of the footage. We were able to get past them after turning north at Placerville, but by then the looming clouds were threatening rain at any moment -- again, not the kind of idyllic ride I wanted to capture for my reminiscences, certainly not compared to the much more scenically spectacular country we'd ridden through earlier.
(I put together a movie anyway.)
Indeed, the heavens did open up as we descended into Ridgway, and brought down more than clean mountain rain; an odd whitish slurry seemed to be flowing along the wheel tracks.
As previously arranged, we pulled under the awning of the Conoco station, joining half a dozen other riders on a variety of bikes, and waited for Larry and Jana to catch up. I used the restroom and bought a Spicy Hot V8 because I wanted to be considered a paying customer and because that rasping cough had returned during the last half hour or so, and I hoped a shot of vegetable nutrients and spices wouldn't hurt.
When I came out I found Gary, following the lead of the other riders, had begun donning his rain gear.
After having lost a golden opportunity to properly memorialize the sunny and most scenic part of the day's ride with Gary, and then the irritation of encountering traffic AND rain (two things which I've gotten pretty good at avoiding), and now feeling sickness returning on top of it all, I was far too grumpy entertain the notion of opening The Bag That Must Not Be Opened and peel on my rain suit. Our destination was only 10 miles up the road and looking in that direction the rain seemed fairly trivial; although my normal riding gear doesn't even pretend to be waterproof, I figured I was already about as wet as I was going to get.
Having a good idea where we we staying, I took the lead and Gary followed me south on US-550.
As I'd expected, the rain let up somewhat, and I quickly stopped thinking about it.
Because lightning.
I hunched down behind the fairing, not in any attempt to stay dry but rather to reduce the aspect of the top of my head being the tallest, pointiest object in the vicinity. Gary and I both noticed, as we discussed later, the rarely observed phenomenon of lightning bolts dissolving into little streamers and balls of plasma. There's a good reason for this being "rarely observed"; if you can see this it means you're way too damned close to it.
But we rolled into the parking lot of the Box Canyon Inn having, as legendary Rush drummer, lyricist, and BMW motorcyclist Neil Peart would surely have commented had he been riding with us, "Cheated death once again."
Also "once again": my arrival in front of a hotel desk clerk precipitated a rapid physical and mental deterioration. I'm pretty tolerant of high altitudes, but today the bronchitis was kicking my ass, throwing me into coughing fits that left me breathless and lightheaded. My brain, no longer tasked with life-or-death decisions on a second-by-second basis, turned to mush. Later when Gary asked me what the cost of the room was so he could pay me his half, I couldn't even tell him and had no explanation for my lack of any document proving I'd paid for it.
The clerk helped explain a couple mysteries, including the odd character of the rain itself and the programmable highway sign we'd seen saying something about following a pilot car on southbound US-550. Down near Durango, and farther south in New Mexico, large fires were burning out of control, apparently with some number of people in threat of having no evacuation route. No doubt the rain still falling on us was mixed with ash.
Apparently, however, Ouray was not in imminent peril, which was as much as I needed to know.
Our room was on the second floor, and the stairs wiped me out. I collapsed into a chair and left the door open, and in due time Jana appeared with various bits of my luggage that I'd stashed in the Caddy vs. strapping onto Therese that morning.
The rain let up and Gary, ever fastidious (and in direct opposition to my own proclivities with regards to washing motorcycles, i.e., I do it as little as possible) began detailing his bike.
But he relinquished the effort when the hail started. Fortunately it was light and brief, soon changing back to fully liquid precipitation.
Eventually I felt strong enough to don my bathing suit and stagger out into the rain, a towel over my head, and made my way back to the hot tubs which were, unfortunately, located at various levels all higher than the sidewalk. But I made it up the stairs without slipping or collapsing, and settled in for a good long soak. I doubt it helped my respiratory condition any, but it didn't hurt, and sure felt good.
When I came back to the room I dried off and immediately climbed into bed, where I essentially remained until the next morning; even brief trips to the rest room left me winded. Sometimes I was wracked by chills, but fortunately they didn't last long and eventually went away completely.
My companions walked downtown to the Outlaw Streakhouse, which I was in no condition to even contemplate. But I'd noticed there was a Thai restaurant at the north end of main street, and asked for a takeout of spicy hot red curry, as much for its imagined (in my mind) medicinal properties as for sustenance. Some time later Gary returned with exactly that (and without, as Larry attempted to order on my behalf, "extra tentacles"). It was good and there was plenty of it; I kept the leftovers in the room refrigerator, knowing the sturdy plastic take-out container would hold up well in one of Larry's ice chests until I could finish the meal off.
Gary wisely spent the evening with Larry and Jana, rather than exposing himself any more than necessary to what were in all likelihood my viciously contagious exhalations.
Unfortunately we both missed Larry's calls, made just after Gary headed back to our room, advising us that on Channel 81 we could watch the Isle of Man TT, which is probably the most exciting, and almost certainly the most dangerous, motorcycle road race in the world.
RSS Feed