As I mentioned in a recent blog, Sue and I recently spent a couple of days in Death Valley. I love the place. I lived in California for 30+ years before I ever made the trip out there on my KLR 650, and since then, I’ve been back several times. Here’s a short recap of those previous visits.
The Teutonic Twins Run
My KLR in Death Valley on that first visit. I loved my KLR; it was a great motorcycle.Good buddy Dennis, who won the chili-eating contest at Brown’s BMW.
That first ride on the KLR 650 didn’t just happen because I decided to finally get out there to see the hottest place on the planet. It came about because the guys at Brown BMW had a chili cookoff and eating contest followed by a two-day ride to Death Valley. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have made it out there. I was the lone KLR rider; all the other guys were on big BMW twins. I’d ridden with those guys before and they were too fast for me. Nope, I was happy as a clam poking along on my 650cc single. I left right after the chili cookoff because I planned to meander along through other parts of the Mojave before spending the night in Baker, which was to be our jumping off point the next morning. It was fun, that ride out to Baker was. Just me and the KLR. I explored the desert around Kelbaker (southeast of Baker) and the old train depot there.
The next morning, we all had breakfast at the Mad Greek (a Baker and southern California icon), and then rolled out on California State Route 127 to the lower end of Death Valley. That’s a good highway that cuts through the desert. There’s nothing else out there, and the Teutonic twin crowd quickly left me in the dust. They were running well over 100 mph; the KLR might touch 100 on a good day. But I didn’t need to run at those speeds that day. I was enjoying the ride.
The charcoal kilns in Death Valley, I’m sure glad I didn’t skip seeing them on that first Death Valley foray.
When I left Death Valley on that first trip, I left through the northwestern part to pick up the 395 back down to southern California. That was a good thing. I saw a sign for Wildrose Canyon Road and another sign for the charcoal kilns pointing down a dirt road. I was by myself and I was in no hurry. I didn’t have any idea what the charcoal kilns were all about, but I was interested in learning more. I took that road, and I’m glad I did. Every time I’ve been in Death Valley since that first trip, the road to the charcoal kilns was closed, including on this my recent trip. If you are ever out there and the road is open, you might consider seeing them. The kilns are interesting, and Wildrose Canyon Road (as the name suggests) is a beautiful ride.
The Hell’s Loop Endurance Run
Following Arlene and TK on 150cc California Scooters into Death Valley.
Another ride in was when good buddy TK, good buddy Arlene, and I rode in the Hell’s Loop endurance rally on the 150cc California Scooters. That was a challenging day. We rode 400 miles into and through Death Valley and then returned to Barstow. It was cold and the hardtail CSC 150 beat me up, but it was fun. That little 150 never missed a beat.
We had lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, and shortly before turning off the road, we saw this guy. He is obviously well fed.As soon as we sat down for lunch at the Furnace Creek Inn, this guy landed a couple feet away. We had just seen the coyote. I asked the roadrunner if he owned anything made by Acme, or if he was being chased by old Wiley. He responded with but two words: Beep Beep.
My next Death Valley adventure was a photo safari with Sue. We did that one in my Subie CrossTrek in a single day. It was a long day, but the photo ops did not disappoint. What was kind of cool about that trip is that when we rode through Badwater Basin, we saw a coyote loping along the road headed north, and a short while later when we stopped at the Furnace Creek Inn, a roadrunner landed right next to us as we enjoyed lunch on the patio. Was the roadrunner running from the coyote? Cue in the Warner Brothers: Beep beep!
The Destinations Deal Tour
The Destinations Deal crew overlooking Death Valley from Dante’s View. We covered a lot of territory on that trip.
A few years ago we rode through Death Valley on RX3 motorcycles. That was part of a promotion we ran when I was working with CSC. We took a half dozen riders through a handful of southwestern states, and Death Valley was the last of several national park visits. It’s where I first met Orlando and his wife Velma. Joe Gresh was on that ride, too. It was fun.
The “My Sister Eileen” Trip
A 20-mule-team borax train.Just like the theatrical title: My sister Eileen. We had a great time on that trip.
After the Destinations Deal run, Sue and I and my sister Eileen had a road trip through California and Nevada, with a run down the 395 through a major league snowstorm. We went through Death Valley the next day (the snowstorm had ended) and it was awesome. I didn’t do a blog on that Death Valley visit (I have no idea why), but trust me on this: Like all trips to and through Death Valley, it was awesome.
That gets me caught up on my prior Death Valley visits. If you want to see more photos and read more about those earlier visits, here are the links:
Watch for a series of Death Valley blogs. The first will be about our most recent visit, and then I’ll post blogs about Death Valley history, Death Valley geology, things to do around Death Valley, Shoshone, nearby Red Rock Canyon National Park, and maybe more. Stay tuned.
A few weeks ago I posted a blog about riding in the rain. With all the snow blanketing parts of the US this winter, I thought it fitting that I post a blog about getting caught in the snow. I’ve ridden in the snow four times and none of them were fun.
Crater Lake
On this ride, my buddy Marty and I were on our way home from Calgary to California after completing the 2005 Three Flags Classic rally. Marty was far more worldly than me and he knew all the good spots to stop. One was Crater Lake in Oregon. We rode in from the Oregon coast where the temperatures were cool but not unbearably so. We pointed our front wheels east and rode to Crater Lake. It was a brutally cold ride, and it grew even colder the further we climbed into the mountains.
We had an interesting encounter with a herd of elk on the way to Crater Lake. We had been seeing road signs warning of elk, but we hadn’t seen any until that day. A monstrous bull stepped out in front of my Triumph Daytona from the forest on the right side of the road. He stood broadside 50 yards in front of me, and he looked directly at me as if to say, “What’s your problem?” If he was attempting to intimidate me, it worked.
I stopped and Marty stopped on his BMW K1200RS behind me. My visor started to fog from my breath. It was just the three of us on that cold, cold morning: Me, Marty, and the Big Bull Elk. After what seemed like several minutes (during which I wondered how quickly I could execute a u-turn and accelerate away from those immense antlers), the elk turned his head and lazily sauntered across the road into the forest on the other side. Yeah, you’re bad, I thought.
I started to let out the clutch and moved forward a tiny bit when two more elk stepped out of the forest onto the highway. These were female elk following the alpha male who had successfully stared me down. So I pulled the clutch in again and waited. The ladies crossed the highway and I started to let the clutch out again. Then another lady elk appeared from the right. This went on for the next several minutes. Maybe as many as another 20 elk, all female, repeated the sequence, two or three at a time. I remember thinking the first one, that big bull, probably didn’t get much sleep with that harem to take care of. I wished I had grabbed a photo, but truth be told, I was too scared and shocked to react. I can still see it vividly in my mind, though.
The Daytona 1200 along Crater Lake in Oregon. A few miles earlier, we had a magical several minutes with a herd of elk.
After the elk episode, we continued our climb up to Crater Lake. The sun was getting higher, but we were climbing and instead of warming the temperatures continued to drop. There were bits of snow on both sides of the road, but the road was dry and we were doing okay. I used a Gerber electric vest in those days. It was a godsend.
Another view of Crater Lake. Note the snow in the foreground.
Crater Lake was interesting. I took a bunch of photos and checked that destination off my bucket list. Incidentally, on that trip I was still shooting with film. I had the N70 Nikon I blogged about earlier.
After taking in Crater Lake, Marty and I started our ride down off the mountain. The ride down was on the western side of the mountain, and the road was in the late morning shade. That section of the road had not warmed up. The snow was still there in two different forms…hard pack white snow in some places, and black ice where the snow had melted and frozen over. It was the first time I had ever ridden in such conditions on a big road bike, and I quickly realized my Daytona 1200 was way different than the Honda Super 90 I rode in the snow when I was a kid in New Jersey. Piloting that Triumph down off the mountain was an extremely demanding and mentally-draining 15-mph riding experience requiring intense concentration.
Fortunately, I remember thinking, Marty and I were the only two guys out there and I didn’t have to worry about anyone else on the road. Marty was in front and we both were taking things very easy. Then in my left peripheral vision I sensed a yellow vehicle starting to pass me. I was pissed and confused. Who the hell else is out here, I thought. Can’t they see I’m on a motorcycle, I’m on ice, and why the hell are they passing me?
Then I realized who it was. What I saw in my peripheral vision wasn’t another vehicle. It was my motorcycle in the rear view mirror. The big Triumph was sliding sideways. The yellow I had picked up peripherally was my rear tail light cowling. Damn, that was exciting! (And terrifying.)
Marty and I made it down off that mountain, but it was a religious experience for both of us.
The Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup
This was a ride coming h0me from the Annual Rattlesnake Roundup in Sweetwater, Texas (I wrote about the Roundup before and you can read that story here). We spent a half day at the Rattlesnake Roundup, another hour or so at the gun show in the hall next to the Rattlesnake Roundup, and then had a late afternoon departure headed home. The first portion of that ride was okay, but as the sun set the temperature dropped big time and the wind across Interstate 10 kicked up dramatically. We crossed into New Mexico and the wind was blowing so hard it felt like the bikes were leaned over 30 degrees just to keep going straight.
Very cool photo ops abounded at the Sweetwater Rattlesnake Roundup. Check out the fangs; this is the stuff of nightmares.
We pulled off the highway in Lordsburg, New Mexico, around 10:00 p.m. and stopped at the first hotel we saw. It was one of those small old Route 66 type motels (you know the type…a cheap single-story structure still advertising they had color TV). One of us (I can’t remember if it was Marty or me) decided we wanted to look for something nicer. We continued on into town and found a nicer hotel, but the desk clerk told us they had no rooms left. “With this wind, every trucker is off the run and in a hotel,” he said. The next town was 50 miles further down the road. I looked at Marty, he looked at me, and I made the case for doubling back to the Route 66 special.
We entered the lobby and two other people looking for a room followed us in. We were lucky. We nailed the last room in Lordsburg (which, I know, sounds like the title of a bad country western song). The folks behind us were out of luck. I have no idea what they did.
Most of the snow was gone after we returned from breakfast.
When we woke up the next morning, the bikes were covered in snow. There was no way we were going to ride in that, so we walked across the parking lot to a diner and had a leisurely breakfast. By 10:00 a.m. there was still snow on the ground, but the roads were slushy (not icy) and we could ride. When we were back on Interstate 10 the slush had disappeared and the road was dry. It was cold. I again enjoyed my Gerber vest. We made it back to southern California late that night. It was pouring rain (that’s the bad news), but it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been and there was no snow (and that’s the good news).
The Angeles Crest Highway
I met my buddy Bryan at a water treatment company. Someday I’ll write a story about that company and the guy who started it. He was a crook (the company founder, not Bryan) and I’m not exaggerating just because I didn’t like the guy. He actually was a crook who was later charged with financial fraud and convicted. I know, I’m digressing again. Back to Bryan, me, motorcycles, and riding in the snow.
Good buddy Bryan and his VFR at warmer times in warmer climes.
Bryan was fascinated by my motorcycles (I owned four or five at the time), and within a few weeks he had purchased a Honda VFR. That VFR was a nice motorcycle (one I never owned but always wanted), and Bryan and I started doing a lot of rides together. We both live in southern California at an elevation of around 1700 feet above sea level, and it is rare to see snow here. I think in the 40+ years I’ve been in So Cal I’ve seen snow twice at my home, and it both cases it didn’t stick.
Bryan and I often rode the Angeles Crest Highway. We would take the 210 freeway to Glendale to pick it up, ride over the mountains on the Crest (the Angeles Crest Highway), stop for gas and sometimes a meal in Wrightwood on the other side of the San Gabriels, and then head home through the Cajon Pass on Interstate 15. It’s one of the best rides in the country.
A typical weekend parking lot scene at Newcomb’s on the ACH. Those were glorious days.
One day in the winter months, it was comfortable So Cal winter weather when Bryan and I decided to ride the ACH, but in the opposite direction. We rode up the 15 to the 138, we rolled through Wrightwood, and then we picked up the Crest heading over the mountains to Glendale. It got cold fast, and by the time we were on the Crest it was brutal. Then it started to snow. It didn’t seem that bad at first and we pushed on. I was on my Daytona 1200 again, and I could feel the bike moving around beneath me. I’d already ridden the Daytona on icy roads in Oregon (see above), so I thought I’d be okay. But this was worse. I could feel the big Daytona sashaying around like an exotic dancer in a room full of big tippers.
Bryan and I stopped. “Think we should turn around?” one or the other of us asked. “Nah, it probably won’t get worse and it’s shorter to keep going than it would be to turn around,” one or the other of us answered. We had that same conversation telepathically three or four more times. The weather was worsening and we hadn’t seen another vehicle on the road since we started. No motorcycles and no cars. It was just us.
Finally, we made it to Newcomb’s, a legendary Angeles Crest roadhouse that is no more (a pity, really…you’d see all kinds of moto exotica and sometimes Jay Leno up there on the weekends). We stopped for a cup of coffee and a bowl of chili. The parking lot was empty, but the place was open. The bartender was shocked when we entered. “How did you get up here?” he asked.
“We rode,” one or the other of us said.
“How did you do that? The road’s been closed because of the snow and ice.”
Well, what do you know? We had our coffee and chili and we warmed up. When it was time to leave, we kept going toward Glendale. No sense going back, we thought. We already knew the Crest behind us was bad. But we soon learned the road ahead wasn’t any better. It was a white knuckle, 15mph ride all the way down, and man, was it ever cold. But it made for a hell of story. I’ve ridden the ACH many, many times…but only once on snow and ice when the road was closed.
The “Build Character” Ride
In my opinion (and I’m the guy writing this blog, so it’s the one that counts) riding in the snow and ice is dumb raised to an exponent. If you’re already on a trip and you get caught in it, it’s sort of understandable. Making a decision to intentionally ride into the snow, though (at least to me), is a really dumb move. But yeah, I did it. Once. Peer pressure is a bitch, let me tell you.
The story goes like this: A bunch of us guys used to meet every Saturday morning at the local BMW dealer to listen to and tell tall tales (said tall tales usually involving motorcycles, women, or both). We did a lot of rides together, this group did. Baja. The American Southwest. The Three Flags Classic. Weekend rides up the Pacific Coast Highway to Pismo Beach for a barbeque dinner in nearby Nipomo at Jocko’s. And more. We were not spring chickens, either. I was in my late 50s and I was the youngest guy in the group. Most of the other guys were real deal geezers in their 70s. One guy was in his 80s.
Geezer riding buddies in the Jocko’s parking lot after coming down out of the mountains. Trust me on this: None of these guys needed to build any more character.
One day at one of our Saturday gatherings one of the guys had this brilliant idea that instead of simply getting caught in the rain, it would be a grand idea to start a two-or-three day ride in the rain when rain would be forecast for the entire ride. You know, a tough guy ride into bad weather. We would do the two-day run up to Pismo, through the mountains and along the coast, and do it on a weekend when it would rain all weekend. “It will build character,” said the geezer whose idea this was. Mom had warned me about guys like that. I should have listened.
Everybody was in. Like I said, peer pressure is a bitch. I had ridden plenty in the rain, and if you are properly attired, it’s not that bad. But snow and ice? Nope, that’s positively not for me. That’s what happened on this ride. Remember I said along the coast and in the mountains? Well, it was that mountain part that did us in. It was in the winter, we were at higher elevations, and sonuvabitch, all of a sudden that rain wasn’t rain any more. It was snow. The roads never froze over, but it was plenty slushy.
Somewhere along our descent, the snow reverted to plain old rain again, and we made it to Pismo without anyone dropping their bike. I noticed on the way home, though, we rode the coast (where it was modestly warmer) all the way back. I guess each of us felt we had built enough character to have banked a sufficient amount.
There you have it…my thoughts on riding in the snow. The bottom line from my perspective is that motorcycles and snow don’t mix. Your mileage may vary. If you think otherwise, let us know.
I was in the tiny town of Omarama, New Zealand, having coffee and trying to wake up enough to plan the day. I was under an hour and a half away from the Hooker Trail, which I learned just a day or so ago was not too far off my original route. The Hooker Trail was one of those that I kept seeing and hearing about in any conversation about the North Island. I normally avoid touristy places as much as possible. One of my many travel mantras is “If I run into another American I have failed.” That’s because most Americans stay on the beaten path and rarely venture off. The venturing off seems to be my happy place.
As I finished my coffee and began to put my gear back on for the ride to the Hooker Trail, I fueled up since it New Zealand was pretty devoid of towns for the next couple hundred miles, which is perfect for riding. I was expecting Mount Cook would be similar to the other areas of New Zealand and was preparing to view a miniature copy of say, Mt. Hood. The previous day (although incredible and diverse) was like a 70% replica of the western United States with a sprinkling of British Columbia thrown in. Yes, I am extremely spoiled in my perspectives of motorcycle roads. I understand this.
It didn’t take long after leaving the coffee shop before low level clouds consumed me and the road. I had just gone through a similar area and noticed when I gained some elevation it cleared up. I remained optimistic as I strained to see anything in front of me. The attempt to hike the Hooker Trail surely would be in vain if it continued to stay this way, as I have heard it often does up in the s, outhern Alps of New Zealand.
Fortunately, this wasn’t the case. Once I hit Lake Pukaki, I had obtained enough elevation to where the clouds were below me. Lake Pukaki than came into full view and it was stunning. The neon green water contrasted with the brown mountains surrounding the lake, and it became all I could see. The colors were so overwhelmingly bright I had to pull over several times not only to take the views in but allow my eyes to adjust from the drab cloudbank that had me engulfed over the previous hour.
After another 30 minutes of riding along this other-worldly lake I could see Mount Cook was getting close and I was excited to finally hike the Hooker Trail. As I entered the parking lot around noon, I noticed how crowded it was. There was hardly any parking (at least for cars). I found a perfect spot for Massie right up front next to the trail head and swapped out my riding outfit for hiking gear.
This was it: The Hooker Trail. It wasn’t too long, only around 6 miles round trip. Once I began hiking I understood why I had kept hearing about it in my travels and when reading random blogs and posts. It was super-crowded. The hike was beautiful. Around each corner was a new view of either glacial lakes or views of Mount Cook towering above. The trail ended at a glacial lake with a beach that was perfect for a quick swim. It was mid-afternoon and it was warming up quite nicely.
Massie she was parked right where I had left her and ready to blast out our final few hours to the hostel on the edge of Lake Tekapo. The trip had taken me through what felt like a whirlwind of geographical features. There’s no question that that the roads, people, and environment in New Zealand are a dream for anyone (especially a motorcyclist). As I cracked open a cold Kea IPA on the lakeshore a sense of satisfaction came over me. I could now add New Zealand to the growing list of countries I where have motorcycled. The memories of this trip will help me pass the time while on the long flight to my next destination. Cheers New Zealand!
It was well after 6:00 p.m. and I was starting to hit my wall for riding. My goal was to travel to this campground I stumbled upon on Google which was about 5 miles down a dirt road which had some decent reviews. The rental company mentioned no off-roading as Massie had street tires. I zoomed in on the map and saw “Linda Road,” so I technically was not off-roading. Check!
The road was a very tame forest service road with the occasional “Traffic Lamb,” as quite frequently there were herds of sheep and they would part like the Red Sea as they heard Massie’s engine roar grow closer (you can send hate mail for that joke to Joe Berk).
Once I neared the campsite I noticed a couple of old rundown stone buildings (from who knows how long ago) and a few van lifers dispersed around a large field. This was a really cool spot! Not only that, but you had views for miles of the sun beginning to set over the brown grassy mountains that surrounded the location. This was Linda’s Camp. It was an old short term gold mining operation from the 1860s, which switched hands a few times before finally being abandoned in the 1950s. This was an amazing place to camp and it was far off the grid. I didn’t even have cell service.
After setting up my tent I struck up a conversation with an old gold miner. He was living in his van there and spent his days panning for gold off a nearby river with minimal luck. He got a good laugh from my story about getting the boot from the coffee shop earlier that day for drying my gear there. The rest of the evening was spent exploring the hotel ruins and a short hike up the mountain to watch the sunset. It was one of those moments where I really was able to relax, breathe, and just be in the present. It was a long but rewarding day and I thought having an early night was in order. It would be another long day tomorrow to include the Hooker Trail hike, which I was greatly looking forward to.
Waking up in yet another serene location with Massie sitting just outside the tent was another perfect kickoff to this new day. Since it was still pretty early, after packing I thought pushing the bike out of the camping area was the proper thing to do to avoid waking any of the van lifers (or the gold miner).
Once well outside the perimeter I went to start the bike. Nothing happened. Shit. The battery was somehow dead. I took the panniers off and attempted to manually jump start it off a small incline. No good. It wasn’t starting. Well, I thought, it was not so funny breaking that “stay on the road rule” now, was it? I had no cell signal either. As I sat down weighing my options (none of which none were good) I heard a couple of pots banging together. The old gold miner was up. I walked over and asked if he had jumpers, and he did! Sure enough, the bike fired right up with his help. Okay, cool I can still make the Hooker Trail even if I am an hour behind schedule. And, the rental company would never know I was off road.
Once I was back on the main road and well on my way, the need for coffee hit me. I pulled into a rest area to see if there was a cell signal to guide me to a coffee shop. There was a cell signal, and there was a coffee shop not too far away. I pulled out and began racing the Linda Pass switchbacks when suddenly all I saw was a huge yellow Scania 18-wheeler coming head on at me. Why was he in my lane? SHIT! I was on the wrong side of the road! In my morning fog, and my distraction from the battery issue I zoned out and drove on the right side of the road. Even with a giant yellow arrow on Massie’s dash as a constant reminder, I somehow ignored the fact that they drive on the wrong side in New Zealand. I didn’t have much time to react and managed to skirt along not so much of a shoulder, but a strip of grass as the truck blasted by me.
That was close. I really didn’t need any coffee after that wakeup call, but what I did need was a moment to get my head back in the game (especially if I was to complete the Hooker Trail and find a campsite). Due to Massie’s moody electrical system, tonight’s campsite would need to be near a town with a strong cell signal. It was still early and my confidence was high. I knew I would satisfy both objectives.
There are certainly worse places to wake up. I opened my eyes facing a beautiful mountain lake with loud wekas clumsily hunting for food in the brush next to my tent. Without my cooking gear it took me just about 20 minutes to pack up and load Massie, the BMW GS750 for what would be a full day of riding. As I was packing up I was already craving a coffee and a meat pie for breakfast. While stuffing my gear in the panniers I noticed how wet everything was from the dew and being so close to the lake. The sun was out though, so I thought after an hour or so of riding I would dry it out as I ate breakfast.
Riding to breakfast took a bit longer than expected and the one hour turned to three. Not that big of a deal as the sun was fully out now and would allow for my gear to dry while I researched my route and stops for the day. As I pulled into a coffee shop in a small town along my route the waitress stated how it would be a while for my food and coffee. This was my queue to unpack my wet gear and lay it out to dry while I was researching maps and things to do for the day.
During my wait several people introduced themselves and we had some fun conversations about my gear and riding. It was a great environment, or so I thought. After about 20 minutes my coffee and food arrived and I was told that maybe I should take it to go and it was time to pack up my gear. I guess they didn’t like the look of my tent and equipment drying and sprawled out all over their front porch. Which I sort of get, even though many of the clientele had been chatting me up. I apologized and, well, it took me about as long to pack up that gear as it did for them to bring my coffee (it happened to be fully dry by the time it was packed). I found it a bit rude, but I understood that having my gear everywhere could be viewed as a bit of a mess. It was time to get going, anyway, as I had a long day ahead.
During my minimal research and planning at the coffee shop I discovered this one hike that I continually heard about from others. It was the Mount Cook Hooker Trail. The hike wasn’t too long, and it had an incredible view at the end. This was only a couple hours off my planned route. Adding that hike meant I would have to have a long day and miss a lot of stops that tourists hit, such as the Franz and Fox Glaciers and hikes along that area. I decided to prioritize the Hooker Trail and skip the glaciers and other coastal hikes. Having made this decision meant a 350-mile day. Which to me didn’t seem like a lot, but the roads were tight and windy, which I thoroughly enjoyed, probably too much as I used the long day as a reason to really wear the edges of the tires in.
After close to 10 hours of aggressive riding through what I felt was like a mini version of the Western United States and British Columbia, I arrived where I thought would camp for the evening, just outside a city called Wanaka. However, the “campground” resembled something of a tent city I would expect to find under Interstate 5 in Seattle. That made it a hard pass for me. I did have a second option, but it was another 45 minutes north and if it didn’t work out, I would be in a tight position as the day was beginning to wear on me. I decided to shoot for it and hope for the best. What I found was far more than I expected and maybe one of the coolest places I ever moto camped.
Kim from South Pacific Motorcycles had just picked me up at my hostel in downtown Christchurch, New Zealand and we were off to meet my new steed for the week. It was a BMW GS750 named “Massie.” Even with my lack of planning, somehow the Universe decided I needed to get back on a motorcycle and I was fortunate enough to snag the last one available for the dates I was in town. The stars couldn’t have aligned any better.
Kim and I exchanged ideas on routes and agreed the one I had lazily researched would be a great one, but it might result in some long riding days. I would have to forego some hikes and tourist attractions that were on my list. It was a loop that would take me over three unique mountain passes, and allow me to see two glaciers and cruise along ocean roads. It would be a full riding trip with not much time for hikes and other tourist stops. This was fine with me as I was itching to ride again. Also, I had enough time remaining in country that if anything appealed to me, I could always return via bus or rental car.
The weather was a perfect 70 degrees F and I was ready to hit the switchbacks as I raced towards Arthur’s Pass National Park. The roads were pretty solid going through this area. It was just exhilarating to be riding again (and in another country at that). I was so caught up in the moment that I forgot to top off on fuel prior to heading into the mountains.
Upon hitting the first town after completing Arthur’s Pass, Massie’s fuel level read a mere 18km remaining (a rookie mistake by me). Once the bike was topped off I sat under the gas station’s awning to figure out where I would be staying that evening. The rental company recommended staying in Holiday Parks. These were similar to the KOAs that we have in the United States.
I cannot stand KOAs. Unless I was in a pinch that would not be my plan for the evening. Camping in New Zealand is different from the United States in that many areas are called “freedom camping,” but in order to stay there you had to have a self-contained vehicle sticker. To obtain the sticker the vehicle must undergo a rigorous inspection process to ensure the vehicle has a toilet in it. So Freedom Camping was obviously out of the question.
Hunting down campsites wasn’t anything new for me. It didn’t take me long to remember that on the North Island I had camped in DOC (Department of Conservation) campsites. These campsites could be quite primitive but they have toilets, which meant I didn’t need a sticker. I found them in really beautiful areas and at a cost of just $15 NZD ($10 USD) they met all my requirements for a peaceful night of camping.
The campsite was perfect. It was next to a beautiful lake with plenty of weka birds that would walk right up to you and hang out for a bit. It had been a short day but it was the perfect length to get used to the bike, chat with a few other riders, and get back into camping off a motorcycle. I was back in my natural environment and decided to call it an early night. I knew the next day I would have to put some serious mileage behind me if I was to complete this loop.
This is another one of those blogs that almost had another title. I considered simply calling it The P11. Hey, if you know, you know. And I know. So does Andrew.
Sue and I were on the East Coast last week (as in literally on the East Coast when we stopped for lunch in Point Pleasant, New Jersey) when I gave my buddy Andrew a call. Andrew is the guy who runs British Motorcycle Gear, a company whose ads grace these pages. You’ve also read reviews by Joe Gresh on some of the top quality gear Andrew offers, including Rapido gloves, the Mercury jacket, and the BMG Adventure motorcycle pants.
Andrew is a true Anglophile (a lover of all things British), although like me, he grew up in the Garden State. We had a nice visit in Andrew’s beautiful home, and then he took us into his garage to see the toys. I was blown away, not just by the motorcycles Andrew parks in his garage, but at how closely they tracked with my list of highly desireable motorcycles.
Andrew’s Norton P11. It’s awesome.No one has ever outdone Norton when it comes to fuel tank style. Triumph comes close. So did Harley in the ’30s, ’40s, and ’50s. This tank is perfect. And those exhaust pipes!
One that caught my eye instantly was a Norton P11. That was the ultimate hot rod motorcycle in the 1960s. Norton shoehorned their 750cc engine into a 500cc Matchless desert sled frame. When I was a teenager, the word on the street was that nothing was faster than a Norton P11. Norton only made a very few of these motorcycles (I think the production total was less than 2500). Truth be told, Andrew’s P11 is the first one I’ve ever seen in person, but I knew what it was as soon as I saw it. It’s parked on the other side of the garage, and my eye skimmed over a bunch of motoexotica when I saw the P11. Man, I would love to own that motorcycle. I don’t necessarily need to ride it; I would just look at it and keep it immaculate. Which, incidentally, is the condition in which I found all of Andrew’s motorcycles.
A late ’60s Triumph Bonneville. How could these guys have been overtaken by Japan?
There was a silver and burgundy 1968 Triumph Bonneville that looks like it rolled out of the Coventry plant yesterday morning. Andrew told me that the Bonneville is sold. Not to me, unfortunately. It’s another I’ve love to own.
Andrew with a few of his rides. Check out the Honda GB500 just behind the Daytona. Just 535 miles! That’s an MV Augusta behind it.
Andrew has a Triumph Daytona, and it’s the rare one…the 900cc triple with a bunch of goodies (think triple caliper disks up front, carbon fiber front fender, and other similar go fast and stop fast bits). It is bright yellow (Triumph called it Daytona yellow), just like the Daytona 1200 I owned about a decade ago. But my Daytona was but a mere commoner’s motorcycle. Andrew’s Daytona is the limited-edition version. Like the P11 Norton mentioned above, it’s the first one I’ve ever seen. I live in southern California; I’ve been to a bunch of moto hangouts (like the Rock Store in Malibu) and numerous Britbike events (for example, the Hansen Dam Norton get-togethers). I’ve seen Jay Leno, I’ve seen pristine vintage Indians (real ones, not the current production stuff), I’ve seen four-cylinder Hendersons, and I’ve laid these eyeballs on other similar exotics. But I’ve never seen a limited-edition Daytona Super III or a P11 in person until I visited Andrew.
Another one of Andrew’s bikes that caught my eye was a near-new-old-stock Honda GB500. It has to be one of the most beautiful motorcycles ever made. Honda offered these 500cc singles in the mid 1980s. It was a modern nod to (and refined version of) the British Velocette. They flopped from a sales perspective back then, but that’s only because of our unrefined palate and our then-fascination with conchos, wide whitewalls , and beer bellies (think potato-potato-potato exhaust notes and you’ll catch my drift). Like a lot of things, I should have bought a GB500 back then. Andrew’s GB500 is literally in like new condition. It has 535 original miles on the odometer.
A BMW…and more Triumphs.
There was more…a modern Triumph Thruxton, another modern Triumph, even a Lotus Elise sports car. My eye, though, kept returning to the Norton P11. It really is a visually arresting motorcycle.
At the conclusion of our visit, I asked Andrew if he would consider adopting me. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh about that. They all thought I was kidding. But I wasn’t.
Having both traveling and motorcycling as my two greatest passions in life whenever I have an opportunity to combine them it is always quite magical. Add on top of that camping, and it’s a trifecta for pure bliss. Having found myself in New Zealand (and previously hearing tales of the incredibly technical roads and terrain here) was something that I didn’t want to miss, yet I almost did.
One of my strengths as a traveler, which seems counter intuitive, is my lack of planning. I rarely plan more than a week in advance, and sometimes less than that. In the past this has been a double-edged sword. The agility of minimal planning allows me to instantly adjust with few consequences when opportunities arise, but it also has caused me to miss highlights that require more planning. Still, this is the way I have traveled and for the most part it works. To be fully transparent, the lack of planning could be due to laziness. But to be perfectly honest if it hadn’t been at least semi-successful I would absolutely put in the work to lay out a more detailed plan.
This lack of planning almost became a major regret here in New Zealand. By the time I arrived on the south island to reserve a motorcycle they were booked months in advance. I was pretty distraught, but I understood the reasoning since it was peak tourism season (and I hadn’t planned). It didn’t look like riding a motorcycle in New Zealand was in the cards for me.
There was a bright spot as an old friend of mine, Neal from the United States, happened to be on an Air Force duty assignment here. We hadn’t hung out in almost 20 years, so seeing him would be a great way to wash away the disappointment. Neal was in Christchurch and attached to an Air Force unit whose mission was to provide support for Antarctica. Which I thought was really cool as they were part of the maintenance team for C-130s that delivered supplies to the frozen continent. I love C-130s as I used to jump out of them when I served with the 82nd Airborne Division. The only difference (from my limited perspective) is the props had eight blades on the propeller instead of four, and these planes had skis attached to the wheels for ice landings. Of course, I thought all this was bad ass.
Leading up to our visit, Neal kept mentioning this Brazilian BBQ place that is an all you can eat meat on a stick fest. When we arrived along with three of his soldiers, the owner came out to greet my friend like he was the mayor of Christchurch. Instantly I knew Neal frequents this place quite often.
After we ordered Brazil’s National Drink, the Caipirinha, we waited for the feast to begin. During this time I began chatting up the owner. He was originally from Arizona and had motorcycled quite a bit throughout the United States. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to motorcycling New Zealand and how I couldn’t find a bike. Within 5 minutes he had texted the owner of a local family-owned rental company, South Pacific Motorcycles. They had a BMW GS750 available for the exact days I wanted. This was great to hear. I may be able to rebound from my lack of planning after all! If this wasn’t destiny, I don’t know what is.
I had 5 days to kill in Christchurch until I picked up the BMW. That wasn’t too hard as it’s a fairly large city with some quirky architecture, botanical gardens, museums, and beaches to occupy my time until it was time to pick the bike up. The downtime also allowed me to research different routes. This wasn’t done by online forums or social media groups but by just looking at maps and putting a route together (as I would do in the United States). Again, this could be laziness, but it’s what works for me. Things were looking bright and the weather was great the day Kim, from South Pacific Motorcycles, picked me up in front of my hostel. It was time to get this adventure underway.
I recently posted a Wayback Machine blog on riding in the rain, and Carl Bennett (a new friend from the UK) added a comment about one of his rain rides. Carl’s input was interesting on several levels, one of which was the included web address. I poked around a bit on Carl’s site and found a blog post titled “Lobo.” Well, one thing led to another, with the result being Carl’s permission to publish “Lobo” here on ExNotes. I enjoyed reading it and I think you will, too.
– Joe Berk
By Carl Bennett
As a name for a motorcycle it’s okay. It means timber wolf, in Spanish, but maybe that means Mexican. Oooops, I meant Microsoft Spanish, for whom Spanish means Old Spanish. Obviously in global internet land, Microsoft’s 14-year-old-in-Ohio sensibilities reign supreme. Which is a whole other story. And this one is about me. Like all my others, as yours are all about you and Charles Dickens’ were about him. And especially Martin Amis’s were all about him. God, were they about him. I don’t know if he ever had a motorcycle. Hunter Thompson definitely had several, but as he wrote himself, Mister Kurz, he dead.
Lobo was the name of the band that sang A Dog Named Boo, so long ago that I can’t even admit I know the tune. I heard it during my formative years, the ones still a-forming.
Like Arlo Guthrie on his motorcycle I don’t want to die. Despite drinking kettle de-scaler yesterday morning, calling NHS 111 and having a not-great day thinking I might actually die of this, which wasn’t helped by eating a whole packet of spicy beetroot. I love that stuff, except they really ought to put a reminder on the packet of what happens when you look in the toilet bowl, to tell you that you almost certainly will live more than another three days and if you don’t, it won’t be anything to do with beetroots, unless a beetroot lorry runs you over. The gist being that I’d quite like to stay alive for the foreseeable future.
So obviously, I bought myself a motorcycle for Christmas. Unlike the song, although I’ve got my motor running, first time every time, but hey, it’s a BMW. On which I have no intention of hitting the highway like a battering ram, nor like anything else. What did you expect? I’ve absolutely no wish to hit the highway because I know from past experience it bloody hurts. Thankfully, my off-bike excursions were few and decidedly minor, but I remember spending an afternoon in Gene Fleck’s Meadow Inn bar in Wisconsin with the road closed while an emergency crew searched against the clock to find someone’s foot. I’d seen him and his girl earlier in the day on a Harley, riding like an accident looking for somewhere to happen, which it duly did.
I wasn’t prepared for the change. And no, that wasn’t why I got a motorcycle again. I did it because life is short. I did it because I wanted to smell the grass and the trees and the fields I passed through. I did it because I wanted to do it again before I die.
Where I began the process I laughingly call growing-up, there wasn’t any public transport to speak of. There were infrequent busses, taxis weren’t a thing for a 16 or 17-year-old in a Wiltshire town and even if being chauffeured to places by my Mummy was an option the way it seems to be for kids today, I’d have died of self-loathing to ask. Probably. After I had the lift, obviously. All of which meant that at 16 I did what was the fairly normal thing and bought a Yamaha FS1-E. It wasn’t just me. Look at the sales figures. Back then, you had a moped only as long as it took to get a motorcycle, which was your 17th birthday. Thanks to some bureaucratic insanity, or more likely in England, nobody could be bothered to check the sense of the rules, or read them properly, a 17-year-old could perfectly legally if predictably briefly stick a sidecar on a Kawasaki Z1, stick L-plates on it and set off for the obituary column of their local paper, when there were such things.
Not me, baby. I bought a Honda CB 175. I had an Army surplus shiny PVC button-up coat. It felt like, it looked like, it probably was something a dustman on a motorcycle would look like, as a friend of mine thoughtfully pointed out in case it was something I’d overlooked. It had to go, even though it didn’t very fast. I put it in the Wiltshire Times. Nobody even rang the phone number. I put the price up 30% the next week and got about 20 calls. I sold it to the first one who came to see it, even though he asked for a discount. Which he didn’t get. I didn’t bother to tell him about the 30% discount he could have had the week before.
Then it was probably my favourite bike, the Triumph T25, the kind of thing that now sells for over £4,000 any day of the week and which then you felt lucky if you could raise £200 on it. It was fun, and I learned some good lessons on it. One of them being that if you ignore that little triangular sign warning you there’s a junction ahead then you’ll go about three-quarters of the way across it before the twin-shoe Triumph brake stops you. Nothing came. Nothing did on back lanes around Tellisford in those days.
The Triumph got swapped for a Norton 500 that ran for two weeks out of the two years I had it. It sent me spinning down the road like a dead fly in Cardiff one black ice night, after I’d left the electric fire warmth of some girl’s flat (nothing doing there; never was, with anybody), lost the bike out from under me at about 5 mph, came to a halt against a parked car and had some Welshman peer down at me to tell me “Duh, it’s icy mind.” I left Wales as soon as I could and bought another Triumph, a real 1970s post-Easy-Rider identity crisis machine. It was a 650cc Tiger engine, shoehorned into a chrome-plated Norton Slimline frame. Instead of the rocker clip-ons you’d expect, it had highish handlebars and cut-off exhausts. Just header pipes in fact, but with Volkswagen Beetle mufflers smacked into them in a Bath carpark, with Halford’s slash-cut trim bolted on the ends. I wasn’t a rocker, but I thought it rocked.
It took two weeks to get the petrol tank the way I wanted it, a deep, deep black you could lose your soul in, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded, sprayed on then sanded about fifteen times in the kitchen of my definitively smelly Southampton student flat, the kind of place that gave Ian McEwan the idea for The Cement Garden, only a bit less appealing. On the first trip out on that gloriously glossy bike I rode up to Salisbury, escorted by a girlfriend whose parents purported to believe that she had her own spare room at my university halls of residence, the ones I’d left months before. We got to her parents’ newish house in the summer sunlight, said hello, put the bike in the driveway. Then decided we’d go to a local pub because a) Wiltshire, b) nothing much else to do until her parents went out, or c) that’s what people did.
I started the bike, but it didn’t fire first time, so I tickled the Amal carburetor and tried again. There was no air filter on the carb – there often wasn’t in those days – so when it backfired the spurt of flame came straight out into the open air and set light to the petrol that had trickled down the outside of the carb float bowl. I appreciate that these are words that younger readers won’t even recognise, but we had to. I had my leather jacket on, a full-face Cromwell ACU gold-rated helmet, and long leather gloves, so I just reached down nonchalantly to switch the fuel tap to Off. No petrol, no fry, as Bob Marley didn’t sing. Except I didn’t turn the petrol off. I managed to pull the rubber petrol feed line off instead. The flames came up to chest level.
My first thought was to run for it, but my second was that I’d just put three gallons in the tank and I seriously doubted I could run faster than that. All I could think of to do was reach into the flames and turn the petrol tap off, so that’s what I did. I couldn’t see past my elbow in the flames, but it worked or I wouldn’t be telling this story. The insulation on the electrics had burned off so the horn was fused on until I got out my trusty Buck knife (something else we took entirely as normal in the West Country) and cut what was left of the wires. My girlfriend’s mother saw the whole thing from the kitchen. She waited until the flames had gone out before she came out to tell me I’d dropped oil on her driveway.
There was a break after that, for university and unhappily London then Aylesbury and Bath until luck and an unusual skillset saw me in Chicago, on a 650 Yamaha that might or might not have been technically stolen, blasting around Lakeshore Drive and the blue lights area, under half the city, overlooking some huge American river, me and an Italian buddy from summer camp on his bike, living if not the dream then certainly some kind of alternative reality. To this day I don’t know why I did that. No insurance, no clear provenance to the bike, certainly no observance of the speed limits, and only my trusty grey cardboard AA international driving licence that didn’t mention motorcycles. But nothing happened. Back then that was all that mattered.
A gap of some years and then a BMW R1000, a bike that vibrated so much that a trip from London to Wiltshire left me literally unable to make a sentence for about fifteen minutes. It felt good though, that lumpy, dumpy, so-solid bike. I traded that one for a Harley-Davidson Sportster which is what I thought was the ultimate motorcycle ought to be before I found out that I needed to spend £200 a month pretty much every month to get it the way it ought to have left the factory before their accountants had a say in the recommended retail price. It got stolen, we recovered it and instead of putting it back in showroom metal flake purple turned it jet black, bored it out to 1200, and put Brembo four-pot brakes and a fuel-injector on it before it transmogrified into a laptop and a laser printer, when laser printers were a long way from the couple of hundred a good one is now.
And somehow that was 30 years ago. This time the iron horse is a BMW F650, almost as old as when I stopped riding for a while, but with a documented 13,000 miles on it. My idea of common sense says changing the oil and the filter and swapping out the original brake lines and replacing them with stainless steel would first of all look cool but possibly more importantly, be quite a sensible way of not relying on thirty year old rubber. I mean, would you? On any Saturday night?
In the intervening coughty years I’ve either sold or given away my original Schott jacket, the gloves, the Rukka, the Ashman Metropolitan Police long boots and the Belstaff scrambler boots. The Cromwell helmet and the Bell 500 open-face are long gone. I need everything, from the toes upwards and I find that most of the names I grew up with such as Ashman or Cromwell just don’t exist any more. I bought another Bell, but a full-face ACU gold Sharp 5-rated lid this time. I got some gloves, some chain lube and a tube of Solvol Autosol to keep the chrome shiny. I found some leather jeans and my old not-Schott jacket that I bought in Spain and after only three applications of neatsfoot oil and old-fashioned dubbin and hanging it over a radiator it’s now soft enough to be wearable and looks, I think, pretty darned good, even if it doesn’t have a single CE rating to its name. I’ve skipped the red Hermetite that used to decorate every pseudo-serious biker’s jeans.
Of the kids I knew that got in Bad Trouble on a bike, one was drunk and showing off. He died. My cousin lost his job and an inch off one leg when he was swiped by a car that ignored him on a roundabout. One in Wiltshire rode his bike under a combine harvester. He died too. It wasn’t really funny and I try not to think of him looking like SpongeBob SquarePants, with his arms and legs sticking out of the straw. He’d had a 20-year break from bikes and had just picked up an early retirement pension payoff. He didn’t read the T&Cs that said you still can’t ride like an arse. The American guy I didn’t ride around Chicago with lost his foot and they didn’t find it in time to put it back on. For all I know it’s still in a field in Wisconsin.
CE-rated armour wouldn’t have helped a single one of them. I’m certainly not saying safety gear isn’t worth the effort, or I wouldn’t have specced out my new helmet so carefully. But motorcycles aren’t the safest thing. You have to watch your sides, your front and what’s underneath you, as well as your back.
Like what you read hear? Check out (and subscribe to) Carl Bennett’s blog at Writer-Insighter.com!
As an avid motorcyclist it’s easy to appreciate the beauty in each state and for many riders discovering amazing roads that many would overlook can become second nature to us. Some might even say it’s an art form. Throughout this vast and beautiful country called the United States of America we are fortunate enough to have a plethora of both paved and dirt roads that are meant to be sought out like the Ark of the Covenant. These roads are meant to be experienced intimately the only way they can be, on two wheels. Experiencing them on a motorcycle can become a thirst that is never quenched, and although each state has its own unique characteristics, ultimately some will stand out more than others. One state that has that effect for me is Colorado.
Colorado is one of those states that as soon as you ride past the “Welcome to Colorful Colorado” sign the roads seem to present themselves to you like a feast on a golden platter with an endless amount of wine. The rides we will review can each be completed in one or two days and are best ridden between late April and early October. To help with prioritization since there are so many incredible rides we have developed a very complex mathematical rating system of 1 to 5 wheelies (5 being the highest). The rating uses the following criteria:
Road conditions
Diversity of riding options
Activities along the route
Abilities to disperse camp/hotel access
Scenery
Route 550: The Million Dollar Highway
Rated 5 Wheelies
Road Description. This loop may be one of the greatest roads in all of North America. The road is paved and in immaculate condition. It combines some of the tightest switchbacks one can expect to experience on a motorcycle. The full route per the map is ~355 miles and can be done in 1 day, but highly recommend taking at least 2-4 to fully experience and immerse yourself in this beautiful part of the country. There are endless forest roads off 550 to get your fill of dirt riding littered with an infinite amount of beautiful dispersed campsites. Also some wonderful old mining towns rich with history, hiking, restaurants, hotels, and hot springs.
Points of Interest. There’s no shortage of amazing places to stop along this road. Below is a small list of the places you should not miss along this route.
Silverton is a great little mining town with wonderful people. It’s a perfect place to load up on supplies if you are camping. You can warm up after getting some miles in at the Brown Bear Café.
Ouray is a beautiful mountain town with several hikes to waterfalls, hot springs, and some wonderful restaurants. My favorite is the Ouray Brewery.
Rico is a really tiny town which consists of a great hotel and bar called the Enterprise Bar and Grill, with wonderful people, great food and cold beer.
Where to Stay/Camp. There is an immense amount of national forest land that can be used to camp on along this loop. Really any dirt road you ride down will guide you to an epic campsite next to a creek. This makes for a relaxing post ride time to wind down in a hammock, while having a refreshing beverage. The towns of Silverton and Ouray have several hotels that are right in the heart of the town and a short walk to tourist activities and restaurants.
Off-Roading. There is an endless amount of dirt roads to find here, this goes from flat well-groomed forest roads to find a campsite to the technical challenging mountain passes like Engineer or Imogene Pass (which I have not done due to the size of my GS1200 and conservative riding style).
Out of so many outstanding rides in the state of Colorado, the Million Dollar Highway should be on the top of any list. This road and area really earn that 5 Wheelie rating due to exceeding each standard for riders of all ability levels. There are so many sights to see along this route that you will never tire of absorbing the beauty that surrounds you in this part of the state. If you are fortunate enough to have the time, doing the loop in reverse can be a great way to add a few more days to your adventure.
Mesa Verde National Park
Rated 5 Wheelies
Road Description. As soon as you enter Mesa Verde National Park the road begins screaming up in elevation with some incredible views overlooking the valley below you will almost have a sense of vertigo overcome you. What is wonderful about this feeling as it goes on and on as you travel through the park. Although the distance from the park entrance to the furthest point is only 28 miles, those miles are filled with numerous overlooks and pullouts that can make this seemingly short ride take 2-3 days. This is especially true if you are taking in the hikes along the way. The only piece of concern for this ride is the numerous road snakes in some areas of this ride. Otherwise its full enjoyment as you have a 360 view of the valleys below that outstretch clear into Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona.
Points of Interest. Since this is a National Park there are ample amounts of short hikes and tours to break up the day(s) you spend in this magical location. A few of the more popular ones are outlined below:
The Cliff Palace requires purchasing a tour ticket at Park Visitor Center, but even without one you can walk to the overlook to get a spectacular view of the houses the Hopi built into the cliffs which are all but hidden except from this vantage point.
The Balcony House also requires a tour ticket but is well worth it as you can walk through the ruins and really get a sense of the
The Knife’s Edge Hike is a great 2-mile hike with little elevation next to Morefield Campground that has incredible sunset views, which enable the rocks to really light up and glow.
Where to Stay/Camp. Morefield Campground- This is the only campground in the park so making reservations ahead of time is recommended. It is one of the better National Park campgrounds I have stayed at and includes free showers, great Wi-Fi from most campsites (antennas are off the bathrooms), and a launderette, gas, and fully stocked store for all your camping and souvenir needs. There are also several wonderful hiking trails right next to the campground.
Off-Roading. This is one of the drawbacks of a National Park, as there is no off-roading permitted within the park boundaries. The beauty and activities from hiking and riding makes up for this shortcoming.
Route 65: Grand Mesa Scenic Byway
Rated 5 Wheelies
Road Description. Yet another beautiful Colorado mountain road filled with switchbacks that rise in elevation and bring you to over 10,000 feet up and onto the World’s largest Mesa. There are several pullouts along this route to take in the views, but no gas stations from Cedaredge to Mesa (50 miles, but can be close to 100 miles if you are doing the off-road portion) plan accordingly.
Points of Interest. The main point of interest the mesa itself and the amazing views, alpine lakes, dispersed camping, and off-roading.
The Wagon Wheel Restaurant and Motel is a great place to stop for a beverage and a burger for lunch, charge your equipment and take a breather.
Where to Stay/Camp. Dispersed camping is plentiful along Rte125 where you can get a lakeside campsite with little issue and make it your own paradise for the evening as you watch the sunset glistening off one of the many alpine lakes. There are also plenty of campgrounds along this way if you are looking for less primitive camping. Hotels are scattered along this route in the towns of Delta, Mesa, or driving to up Grand Junction for a greater variety of lodging.
Off-Roading. Route 125 Surface Creek Road is a great 15-mile loop. This road has you experience the mesa while passing crystal clear alpine lakes with numerous dispersed camping areas. There is also a 10-mile dirt road in great condition to visit the Lands’ End Observatory. The views off the mesa looking down on the plateau can allow you to see into Utah on a clear day with awe inspiring views.
Route 141: Grand Junction to Naturita
Rated 4.5 Wheelies
Road Description. This is a low elevation beautifully paved road that is 105 miles long. This road will have you leaning your ride until you feel the mist kissing your windshield from Dolores River as you pass amazing rust colored mesas that stretch into the sky and rival that of Monument Valley. The road has very little traffic which will allow you to enjoy some solitude as you embrace the scenery you ride through. The only reason this route is rated as 4.5 is the lack of amenities.
Points of Interest. This road is in quite a desolate area, outside the tiny town of Gateway. Gateway Canyons General Store is owned and run by the preacher of the church next door to it. This is the only place to gas up between Grand Junction and Naturita so be sure to check your fuel levels.
Where to Stay/Camp. Dispersed camping here is plentiful but mainly in one area just south of Grand Junction, Divide Road. This road is a steep switchback dirt road that connects to numerous other roads which are great fun exploring for campsites to settle down in. There are numerous dispersed sites with beautiful views over the canyon in which you can see the Dolores River running far beneath you.
Off-Roading. Divide Road also encompasses numerous off-roading opportunities that sprawl out across this mesa. This is a perfect place to explore for that unique dispersed campsite while hitting some fun dirt to enhance your day. There are however areas of slippery clay, so if it is raining it can become slick in portions of this road.
Routes 160 and 149: Pagosa Springs to Lake City
Rated 4 Wheelies
Road Description. This route consists of 45 miles of a four-lane highway on Route 160 that will have you summit at over 10,000 feet. The road will then drop you into South Fork, Colorado. This is where you will turn left onto Route 149. Route 149 will quickly whittle down to a tighter and quieter road for the next 75 miles, which are filled with mountain passes. South Fork is the only town between these areas so make sure you gas up and grab lunch before heading onto the second part of this amazing road. The next portion will have you speeding across lower elevation prairies and then climbing high into the mountain tundra that will resemble something from another planet before descending into Lake City.
Points of Interest. I specifically wanted this trip to begin (or end) in Pagosa Springs so you have an opportunity to experience the hot springs in Pagosa.
There are free hot springs you can visit called Hippy Dippy Hot Springs, but I highly recommend taking an afternoon and enjoying the springs at the resort.
The Mountain Pizza and Tap Room is a perfect place for a great pizza prior to starting on the second part of this ride in South Fork.
Where to Stay/Camp. Throughout the ride there is no shortage of camping in both dispersed and paid locations. In Pagosa there are numerous hotels. I prefer the hotel directly across the street from the spa as it is much more affordable then the spa and in a great location. For Lake City, the Matterhorn is a beautiful Swiss style motel which will allow you a solid night’s sleep at a great price. It’s a perfect spot to recharge if you are going to take on some of the more challenging off-road portions in Colorado the following day.
Off-Roading. Lake City is the starting point for some of the more serious off-roading mountain passes, such as a few of the most popular passes including Cinnamon and Engineer. Both of these passes surpass 12,000 feet. If you crave technical off-roading challenges with views that can’t be beat, these are the two passes I recommend.
Conclusions
Southern Colorado is a rider’s paradise, and a region that should not be missed for riders of all experience levels. Other avid motorcyclists have also recommended these roads to me, which reinforces my approval for these routes and motivated me to write this comprehensive layout to help others. I hope this breakout has been helpful and serves as a reason to visit Southern Colorado and have the riding experience of a lifetime.
Kim and I exchanged ideas on routes and agreed the one I had lazily researched would be a great one, but it might result in some long riding days. I would have to forego some hikes and tourist attractions that were on my list. It was a loop that would take me over three unique mountain passes, and allow me to see two glaciers and cruise along ocean roads. It would be a full riding trip with not much time for hikes and other tourist stops. This was fine with me as I was itching to ride again. Also, I had enough time remaining in country that if anything appealed to me, I could always return via bus or rental car.
