Travels with Sinbad: Motorcycle Journeys: Part 3
The next morning’s weather did not look promising.
Start of the Million Dollar Highway.
Around 7:30 a.m. after only a half-eaten breakfast, a nervous stomach, and a load of determination, I packed up Sinbad again, put on full cold weather layers and rain gear and headed north on Highway 550 toward Ouray.
I didn’t have much experience with mountain conditions during bad weather and, not sure about the safest course of action, chose the route I had not seen because it seemed more appealing than to repeat my trip of the day before. It was a ride from hell.
I’m sure it must be incredibly beautiful along that two-lane winding highway among those haunting mountain peaks and valleys—when the sun is out! But it was raining steadily, it was cold, and there wasn’t even a glimpse of Mr. Sun. I was lucky with the construction and blasting though—I had no wait at the first location and only a short wait at the second. The road was uneven and frequently patched, mud-slick in places from mountain runoff, with one lane each way except in the construction zones where it narrowed to one lane at a time. It twisted around and around, frequently back on itself in hairpin turns, with speed postings at times of only 10 mph. No need to caution me; I was putting along at minimum speed.
View from Million Dollar Highway
To add to the fun, I had a problem with my idle—it would not go below 2,000 rpms when using engine braking and I had to start using my front and rear brakes more than I would have liked to keep at safe speeds. My mind jumped from one possible bad outcome to the next and I my shoulders were up around my ears with stress. Thankfully, traffic was light (how many other fools could there be?) and when it did stack up behind me I was able to let them get by rather than increasing my speed to an uncomfortable level. One lonely, beat-up green pickup truck held way back behind me the whole way; its driver was probably just as scared as I was.
After what seemed like an eternity, I rolled down into Ouray and parked the bike with the engine racing until I hit the kill switch. What a goofy deal that turned out to be—somehow I had accidentally pushed the choke on during my ride down the mountain and simply pushing it off solved the problem. Now there’s a blonde biker moment!
Aerial view of Million Dollar Highway
By that time, I was sick to death of mountain riding and did not want to complete the circle back to Longmont through Glenwood Springs via Hotchkiss and Paonia. I opted for the longer but easier route through Grand Junction, where I knew I could get on I-70 and roll straight on home with plenty of lanes and good roads. It wasn’t quite that easy, but I wanted desperately to be in my own bed that night, so I stopped only for gas and brief food breaks. The landscapes around Grand Junction and the small town of Palisades are dominated by a huge mesa in shades of cream and rose, with softly weathered folds of sandstone quilting its sides. It was a special, subtle kind of beauty greatly contrasting with the sharp, dark and looming magnificence of the Rocky Mountains I had just passed through.
Jammed with tourist traffic and semi-trucks heading for vacation or home ground, Interstate 70 was wild. From drivers speeding far above the 75 mile per hour limit, more than willing to mow you down if you impeded them in any way, to a shitload of eighteen wheelers flashing lights on the upgrades to signal they were barely moving, then barreling down the other side with brakes smoking. All this and more rain. Add two or three long tunnels with cars and trucks darting from lane to lane and tailgating me, one huge traffic jam just before my exit at Red Rocks caused by a semi that had steamed by me earlier then lost its brakes and taken out another vehicle, and the trip home was long, long, long. I was dead tired and cold—the last thirty miles a challenge as I struggled to remain somewhat alert and cautious. When I rolled into my own garage in early evening, I was so dog tired I had to sit there a moment before I could haul myself off the bike and stagger into the house.
Why in the world, you might be asking yourself, would anyone want to subject themselves to this kind of danger, dirt, and fatigue? The answer is, I don’t know—what I do know is that it is the combination of experiences that keep you riding—the exhilaration of perfect conditions, the deep satisfaction of knowing you have pitted yourself physically and mentally against challenging circumstances and survived. I make my living sitting in a comfortable office thinking up words. I love my work, but it is the days spent tiring myself physically, being outdoors completely focused on my surroundings and the bit of highway in front of me that give me the deepest sleep, the best dreams, a feeling of well-earned rest. I come away from a road trip feeling a deeper understanding of my strengths and weaknesses, with a clearer perspective of my life and what truly matters.
Riding a motorcycle is not for everyone, nor is it a vehicle to self-awareness for everyone who does ride. The deeper experience comes from choosing any goal or activity that really interests you, in which you can immerse yourself completely and gain a measure of competence while still pressing the envelope. It is at those moments when you are “in the zone” that you encounter your authentic self, you know somehow who you really are and what is essential to your life. # # #