There is nothing on Earth like a table of drunken rednecks, and thank goodness for that. I have to admit, I had expected more of Colorado; this was kind of a letdown. Stewbert and I arrived in Fort Morgan after logging nearly 900 miles, thus kicking off our 2011 cross-country motorcycle trip. At the end of Day One, we had achieved our goal - clock enough miles to get us comfortably into Colorado. Everything was looking up, except for a few unforeseeable details.
In early 2007 I joked to my friend Stewbert that, wouldn't it be cool to ride our motorcycles to Vancouver? Turns out, it was. Then in 2008 we careened south, to Florida. 2009 saw us ride our sports bikes across Canada, ending up in Midtown Manhattan, New York City. Last year my dad and brother joined us for a three-week excursion to the Arctic Ocean, via Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. This year, we elected to once again hook up with my brother and head southwest to San Diego, Calif. Neither Stewbert nor I had ever visited the American Southwest, and thus deemed it the perfect 2011 destination to top the previous trips.
As usual, Stewbert put together our itinerary. We would head southwest and meet my brother Dave in Las Vegas, where he was briefly undergoing training with the Navy at Nellis Air Force Base. All three of us would follow a spastic route around Arizona, covering Hoover Dam, the Grand Canyon, Petrified Forest, Tombstone, and Joshua Tree before taking a breather at Dave's home in San Diego. After a few days Stewbert and I would say goodbye and head home via Monument Valley, the Four Corners, and Mesa Verde. All of this, in about two weeks.
Finally - with four major cross continental bike trips under my belt, I think I finally have the system down. In fact, oddly enough, this was the first trip I have ever been totally prepared for. Taking the advice of my ten-year-old nephew (see last week's column), everything at home completely fell into place. For the first time, I had my luggage packed days in advance. The details on the farm ironed themselves out minus the typical stress. I had relief help lined up, plenty of cash for the trip, and for once, all I had to do was wait for the day to come.
And so, with high hopes and full tanks of fuel, Stewbert and I merged onto Highway 11/81 and sped west beneath a dreary, overcast day. Perhaps the weather wasn't totally in our favor - the horizon threatened a possibility of rain. For the first time, I didn't really care. I had finally learned how to pack for a trip like this.
Since Day One was spent largely on the interstate traversing Iowa and Nebraska, I'll spend some time on gear (best to get the formalities out of the way now, before the truly interesting stuff in Arizona, Utah, and California). For this trip, Stewbert and I would each be driving our 2006 Yamaha R1 supersports.
The R1 is not the typical cross-country motorcycle, but definitely the most fun. This is a bike that will eat up winding, curvy mountain roads without breaking a sweat. It will not overheat in the desert, and can jump on the interstate and do 95 miles per hour all day long. It is smooth, nimble, and frighteningly powerful. Having clocked over 30,000 miles on my R1, I have never longed for something faster or better, possibly because there is no such thing.
Thanks to a brilliantly-conceived custom-made aluminum luggage rack by Davis Welding, carrying a tail pack on my R1 is a cinch. You may not believe it, but I have always overpacked on these trips. I have always brought too much of one thing, and not enough of another. This time, I vowed to get it right. So, when Stewbert and I rolled out on that cloudy, chilly morning, I wore every piece of cold-weather gear that I would need. As the sun rose and we dropped to a warmer latitude, I could easily strip off a layer and quickly pack it in my bag without wasting time. So far, so good.
As we crossed Nebraska, I felt completely at ease. Little did I know, at that time, just how essential all of my gear would become. Little did I know that this trip would be the master of extremes. As we shall see in the weeks to come, Stewbert and I would be riding across the boiling expanse of the California desert, our bikes running 30 degrees warmer than usual. Conversely, the 11,000-foot Rocky Mountain passes would drive a full-blown winter storm directly across our path. For the first time, in driving snow, I would have to slow down to the recommended posted speed limit around curves and switchbacks - curses.
All of that, and much more, to come. In the meantime, Day One - we had arrived at Colorado. As I said at the onset, Stewbert and I were wildly disappointed. Upon entering the grocery store to grab a celebratory six-pack, I realized Fort Morgan carried only Budweiser and Coors products. In lieu, we had water.
We were then seated at the local steakhouse amidst a sea of public profanity, camouflage hats, and screaming babies. The waitress arrived at our table to take our drink order. When I asked her what they had on tap, I practically expected a line from Blues Brothers:
"Oh we have both kinds of beer - Bud AND Bud Light." Colorado could only improve from here.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
In early 2007 I joked to my friend Stewbert that, wouldn't it be cool to ride our motorcycles to Vancouver? Turns out, it was. Then in 2008 we careened south, to Florida. 2009 saw us ride our sports bikes across Canada, ending up in Midtown Manhattan, New York City. Last year my dad and brother joined us for a three-week excursion to the Arctic Ocean, via Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. This year, we elected to once again hook up with my brother and head southwest to San Diego, Calif. Neither Stewbert nor I had ever visited the American Southwest, and thus deemed it the perfect 2011 destination to top the previous trips.
As usual, Stewbert put together our itinerary. We would head southwest and meet my brother Dave in Las Vegas, where he was briefly undergoing training with the Navy at Nellis Air Force Base. All three of us would follow a spastic route around Arizona, covering Hoover Dam, the Grand Canyon, Petrified Forest, Tombstone, and Joshua Tree before taking a breather at Dave's home in San Diego. After a few days Stewbert and I would say goodbye and head home via Monument Valley, the Four Corners, and Mesa Verde. All of this, in about two weeks.
Finally - with four major cross continental bike trips under my belt, I think I finally have the system down. In fact, oddly enough, this was the first trip I have ever been totally prepared for. Taking the advice of my ten-year-old nephew (see last week's column), everything at home completely fell into place. For the first time, I had my luggage packed days in advance. The details on the farm ironed themselves out minus the typical stress. I had relief help lined up, plenty of cash for the trip, and for once, all I had to do was wait for the day to come.
And so, with high hopes and full tanks of fuel, Stewbert and I merged onto Highway 11/81 and sped west beneath a dreary, overcast day. Perhaps the weather wasn't totally in our favor - the horizon threatened a possibility of rain. For the first time, I didn't really care. I had finally learned how to pack for a trip like this.
Since Day One was spent largely on the interstate traversing Iowa and Nebraska, I'll spend some time on gear (best to get the formalities out of the way now, before the truly interesting stuff in Arizona, Utah, and California). For this trip, Stewbert and I would each be driving our 2006 Yamaha R1 supersports.
The R1 is not the typical cross-country motorcycle, but definitely the most fun. This is a bike that will eat up winding, curvy mountain roads without breaking a sweat. It will not overheat in the desert, and can jump on the interstate and do 95 miles per hour all day long. It is smooth, nimble, and frighteningly powerful. Having clocked over 30,000 miles on my R1, I have never longed for something faster or better, possibly because there is no such thing.
Thanks to a brilliantly-conceived custom-made aluminum luggage rack by Davis Welding, carrying a tail pack on my R1 is a cinch. You may not believe it, but I have always overpacked on these trips. I have always brought too much of one thing, and not enough of another. This time, I vowed to get it right. So, when Stewbert and I rolled out on that cloudy, chilly morning, I wore every piece of cold-weather gear that I would need. As the sun rose and we dropped to a warmer latitude, I could easily strip off a layer and quickly pack it in my bag without wasting time. So far, so good.
As we crossed Nebraska, I felt completely at ease. Little did I know, at that time, just how essential all of my gear would become. Little did I know that this trip would be the master of extremes. As we shall see in the weeks to come, Stewbert and I would be riding across the boiling expanse of the California desert, our bikes running 30 degrees warmer than usual. Conversely, the 11,000-foot Rocky Mountain passes would drive a full-blown winter storm directly across our path. For the first time, in driving snow, I would have to slow down to the recommended posted speed limit around curves and switchbacks - curses.
All of that, and much more, to come. In the meantime, Day One - we had arrived at Colorado. As I said at the onset, Stewbert and I were wildly disappointed. Upon entering the grocery store to grab a celebratory six-pack, I realized Fort Morgan carried only Budweiser and Coors products. In lieu, we had water.
We were then seated at the local steakhouse amidst a sea of public profanity, camouflage hats, and screaming babies. The waitress arrived at our table to take our drink order. When I asked her what they had on tap, I practically expected a line from Blues Brothers:
"Oh we have both kinds of beer - Bud AND Bud Light." Colorado could only improve from here.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
