On the Road Again: Weather is Not Boring
“I wanna’ know, have you ever seen the rain, comin’ down on a sunny day?”
In the early 1970s, Creedence Clearwater Revival drove this melody up the charts and, once you’d heard it, it clung unforgettably in your head like chewing gum to a bedpost. Even today, hearing that song can jam it into my brain, playing again and again on auto repeat. It always pops into my head when I’m out riding my motorcycle and the sky gets gray.
Weather is king when you take up the sport of motorcycling. The climate plays an inescapable role in your experiences. Most bikers who have been riding for a while automatically pack rain gear and a few extra layers for added warmth in case conditions change radically. Colorado is known for its unpredictable weather, as evidenced by the presence of the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder. Meteorologists flock here to study our constant variety of weather patterns because they give them more frequent opportunities to record, to observe, to theorize, about scientific aspects of what we commonly call “weather.” Want to know about the weather? Ask a biker.
Shortly after I began riding, my son commented that I had become a weather nut—more concerned about it than anyone he knew. He was right. Once you get caught riding unprepared during a major storm, your interest in forecasting soars. I listened to the weather news morning and evening, found myself checking for squall lines among clouds overhead or on the horizon, and kept an eye out as cloud types signifying a change swept across our Colorado skies. On-the-bike training during my first road trip in New Mexico taught me it was also wise to note the direction and strength of the winds for the day.
Early on, it became obvious to me that if I was going to ride around on a motorcycle and do any touring at all, I was going to get rained on, hailed on, and probably blown about now and then. It can be challenging and downright scary. You must learn not to panic, to stay steady, and to keep focused on the moment at hand.
A good example would be a ride I took a few summers ago. The weather had been on a record-breaking streak, day after day in the nineties and approaching 100 degrees, with only isolated sprinkles late each afternoon. We were in desperate need of a long, slow rain to bring down the high fire danger and to replenish water supplies in some mountain areas. A small community in the foothills was out of water and residents were having to truck it in. Raging forest fires had gobbled up thousands of acres of trees, foliage, and underbrush—and left animals and humans alike homeless. Forestry services were on 24-hour alert and all types of campfires were banned. Talk of drought was continual and more people than usual had an eye to the sky, hoping for rain.
With such a high probability of continued dry, hot weather, a couple of fellow motorcycling enthusiasts, Pam and Lee McLeod and I decided it would be a good time to start out early and ride through Rocky Mountain National Park and over Trail Ridge. Trail Ridge is a spectacular ride, winding through inviting meadows and forests, dramatic geology and a variety of ecosystems, finally rising above the tree line to peak at more than 12,000 feet at a viewing station, gift shop, and restaurant perched on the Continental Divide. The 360-degree views are magnificent and it’s a rare day when you don’t see an abundance of wildlife, including deer, bighorn sheep, and grazing herds of elk. This day promised to be no exception.
The forecast had been “hot and clear early, with ninety-plus temperatures and possibly the usual scattered afternoon thunderstorms.” Instead, the morning dawned with a slight cloudiness over the mountains, but we set off optimistically, believing it would burn off and we would ride in the sunshine all day long. Taking the Fall River entrance into the park, we saw fields of wildflowers, a few elk, a cautious doe stepping daintily out into the open, and an increasing number of tourists whose pace on the curving road indicated their unfamiliarity with mountain driving. It was glorious to be out and I was feeling good. My bike was running smoothly and the day unfurled before us like an invitation. Having stopped at the summit for a cup of coffee and to soak up the full-circle views, we headed down the western slope for a quick cruise through Grand Lake and then to lunch in Granby.
One of the great pleasures of riding is the feeling that you are a part of the world and not just an observer encased in the artificially heated or cooled environment of an automobile. The wind and sunshine are on your face and body, they act upon you and your machine, and you react, cutting through the day with a sense of exhilaration and freedom that cannot be found in a four-wheeled vehicle. The vibration, the power of the engine between your legs pulling you forward, the response of your machine to your weight shift or push and press of the handlebars, the roar and backfire of your pipes as you down shift or max your rpms throttling through gears—there is a joy in these simple mechanical actions that only a rider can know. It is a part of what is meant when someone asks a motorcyclist why they ride and the response is, “If you have to ask, you couldn’t possibly know.” It is a feeling of flying, a sense of infinite possibility.
That’s how this day’s ride with Pam and Lee started out; all was right with our world. From Granby, after fueling our bodies with cheeseburgers and fries and our machines with gas, we continued over Highway 40 toward Winterpark, planning to turn east at I-70 and homeward to wind up a 230-mile day.
We could see menacing black clouds building to the south of us, but we reassured each other that we would skirt that trouble, like a kid saying “not me” when asked who ate the last piece of pie. Just after Winterpark, a few sprinkles began to fall. Soon it was coming down steadily and I was beginning to feel cold in my leather jacket over a tank top. After some miles of hoping the squall was going to pass through quickly, we pulled over into a large, paved parking lot, jumped off our bikes, and dug into our saddlebags for our rubberized rain gear. Standing in a pouring, cold rain, with a helmet on your head, in full biker regalia—boots, chaps, bulky leather jacket and gloves—and contortioning your body into a rubber suit is also part of what biking is all about. But not the joyous part.
I struggled to keep Velcro tabs from attaching to the wrong places, fought to get the legs of my suit over my boots without falling into the mud, stretched an elastic waistband over the entire bulk of myself, changed to warmer gloves, tucking them into the elastic wristbands for more waterproofing. Then, I got to do part of it all over again, as I realized I had forgotten to change from my sunglasses to my clear glasses for better visibility in the rapidly darkening day. By this time, I am the Pillsbury Dough Girl on a motorcycle—looking good, biker babe.
After consultation about whether to try to sit it out or continue on, we set off again. The clouds had not lifted, nor the rain lightened. The roads were slick, the traffic constant, with a lot more switchbacks to ride before the Interstate. We held our speed down and peered closely at suspicious spots in the road, anything that might shed traction.
Even though I don’t like riding in the rain, it seemed like it was going to remain manageable. Then the hail began, luckily only pea sized, hammering my helmet, dancing on the slick, shiny road, bouncing off my arms, wind and face shields. The rain began to fall in sheets—I was spending part of my time wiping ineffectively at my face shield with my wet left glove, trying to keep my speed steady, watching traffic behind me and coming toward me around the curves. One way I deal with bad conditions when I’m riding is by focusing on how far ahead the next town is where I might find shelter, and checking the odometer frequently to see how close I am. I say over and over to myself, “Just ‘x’ number of miles to go. You can do it, Rosita; you can do it. Slow and steady. Just keep going; you’ll get there.” At times like this, the other drivers on the road are always more confident than I am. They crowd me from behind, urging me to go faster—of course this adds tremendously to my comfort level—NOT!
So, there I was, riding the dark side of cycling, summoning my courage to just keep on going, when I see a sign ahead and, the motorcyclists’ sign of the devil, a line of orange cones—“Pavement Ends, 500 Feet.” Oh boy, oh boy, I think, as I bump off onto the construction segment of the highway, weaving through cones, hoping no one in any direction is going too fast or had too much to drink. “What next,” I say to myself, “I ain’t no blinkin’ postman! Leave the rain, snow and sleet to someone else. I just want to be home!”
As the interstate comes into view, the clouds lift, the pavement steams dry, and the heat tucks around us like a sodden blanket. A few miles down the highway we pull off alongside a river and dismount, struggle out of wet rain suits and gloves, clean off our shields, change to our sunglasses, and glance around. Hey, it’s a beautiful sunny day, a great day for a ride—let’s rock and roll. Ah, it’s great to be on a motorcycle!
Oh, yes, I’ve seen rain comin’ down on a sunny day—# # #