chain
Registered
The adventure begins: I leave the Omaha metro shortly after 6:00 a.m. this past Saturday with full tank and bags. Five ~10 minute stops for a splash of fuel, drink from a bottle of water, and nibble off a Power Bar from the tank bag are the only deviation from the task at hand, to knock down the 571 miles from doorstep to doorstep enroute to my good friends’ home in Estes Park, Colorado, some 7,800 feet above sea level.
Eight hours and 35 minutes later I pull into their driveway not the ragged, exhausted newbie to quasi distance riding that I thought I would have been, but rather a totally energized motorcycle enthusiast who was beaming at his accomplishment.
This ride bested my previous one day record of 330 miles, so needless to say I was excited. Stock saddle, no bike shorts, no Airhawk, no nothing. Just Levis with Arai and Tour Master gear covering the rest. Honestly, I could have gone another 150, maybe 200 miles had I needed to.
The last 20 or so miles up the mountain to Estes Park is through the Big Thompson Canyon, HWY 34, a churning, twisting minefield of a two laner that punishes dimwits and hamfists (there were two sportbike crashes while I was there, an F3 which low-sided when the rider made a pass across double yellow and a new R1 that was hit head-on when our hero did the same thing around a decreasing radius corner and ran wide).
Dozens of blind corners, a few intersecting driveways, some animal crossings, and occasional falling rock conspire to make for a somewhat hazardous stretch of roadway if you’re running too brisk a pace or aren’t paying attention. My hosts did not have to warn me to be prudent when riding this road.
What a blast of a trip out though! Alone with my thoughts, the busa made the perfect travel companion. Tractor beam acceleration, roominess and comfort, and good range (at least during the occasions I could keep my hand from dipping into the prodigious power – have you ever ridden Interstate 80 in the Nebraska panhandle and into eastern Wyoming? Not a soul there to see you speed ).
Saturday night in Estes would be punctuated with the savoring of several “Laughing Lab†Scottish Ales (brewed in nearby Colorado Springs) . . .
. . . the consumption of some of the best homemade Italian sausages, pasta and sauce this gentleman has ever been privy to, and an hour long vegetation in the deck-top Jacuzzi overlooking Long’s Peak, the 14,255 foot tall monarch of the Rocky Mountain National Park.
In a most ironic twist of fate, my friends Bob and Audrey were involved in a serious accident in Big Thompson Canyon Monday night while coming home from Denver in their now totaled minivan. Bob has to make frequent trips to the big city for prostate cancer treatments (which he's beating, hoorah!) and he and his wife are both tired, so tired in fact the troopers believe Audrey nodded off when she went off the pavement and wrecked.
Thank God the road sign which crashed through the windshield on the passenger side didn’t hit Bob in the head. Otherwise, this post would be of a much different tone than the one I sit and type now. They’re home from the hospital already and are on the mend, but instead of me being an extra body around the house, it was sort of collectively decided that I’d cut my vacation and depart early with a promise to return on the bike again.
Still, I had a whale of time on my four day excursion. I think what I’ll do is break this thread down via atypically abbreviated captions with some photo attachments to tell the tale.
Stand by, more to come . . .
Eight hours and 35 minutes later I pull into their driveway not the ragged, exhausted newbie to quasi distance riding that I thought I would have been, but rather a totally energized motorcycle enthusiast who was beaming at his accomplishment.
This ride bested my previous one day record of 330 miles, so needless to say I was excited. Stock saddle, no bike shorts, no Airhawk, no nothing. Just Levis with Arai and Tour Master gear covering the rest. Honestly, I could have gone another 150, maybe 200 miles had I needed to.
The last 20 or so miles up the mountain to Estes Park is through the Big Thompson Canyon, HWY 34, a churning, twisting minefield of a two laner that punishes dimwits and hamfists (there were two sportbike crashes while I was there, an F3 which low-sided when the rider made a pass across double yellow and a new R1 that was hit head-on when our hero did the same thing around a decreasing radius corner and ran wide).
Dozens of blind corners, a few intersecting driveways, some animal crossings, and occasional falling rock conspire to make for a somewhat hazardous stretch of roadway if you’re running too brisk a pace or aren’t paying attention. My hosts did not have to warn me to be prudent when riding this road.
What a blast of a trip out though! Alone with my thoughts, the busa made the perfect travel companion. Tractor beam acceleration, roominess and comfort, and good range (at least during the occasions I could keep my hand from dipping into the prodigious power – have you ever ridden Interstate 80 in the Nebraska panhandle and into eastern Wyoming? Not a soul there to see you speed ).
Saturday night in Estes would be punctuated with the savoring of several “Laughing Lab†Scottish Ales (brewed in nearby Colorado Springs) . . .
. . . the consumption of some of the best homemade Italian sausages, pasta and sauce this gentleman has ever been privy to, and an hour long vegetation in the deck-top Jacuzzi overlooking Long’s Peak, the 14,255 foot tall monarch of the Rocky Mountain National Park.
In a most ironic twist of fate, my friends Bob and Audrey were involved in a serious accident in Big Thompson Canyon Monday night while coming home from Denver in their now totaled minivan. Bob has to make frequent trips to the big city for prostate cancer treatments (which he's beating, hoorah!) and he and his wife are both tired, so tired in fact the troopers believe Audrey nodded off when she went off the pavement and wrecked.
Thank God the road sign which crashed through the windshield on the passenger side didn’t hit Bob in the head. Otherwise, this post would be of a much different tone than the one I sit and type now. They’re home from the hospital already and are on the mend, but instead of me being an extra body around the house, it was sort of collectively decided that I’d cut my vacation and depart early with a promise to return on the bike again.
Still, I had a whale of time on my four day excursion. I think what I’ll do is break this thread down via atypically abbreviated captions with some photo attachments to tell the tale.
Stand by, more to come . . .
