"It's nothing more than irritating." I snapped the side panels back, perplexed at this new problem that had presented itself. Stewbert watched from over my shoulder, unable to contribute.
The previous night, without warning, my headlights flickered and went off. Bathed in darkness while traveling 65 miles per hour on a motorcycle was a pretty bad omen.
I found nothing obvious; no blown fuses, broken wires, or loose connections.
The turn signals, tail and brakes, and running lights all worked, but I was without headlights. This problem was not significant enough to halt our progress, just irritating. I stood up and turned to Stewbert, "If this is as bad as it gets, we'll be all right."
Our plan was to take Colorado Highway 160 east, and then 550 north toward Interstate 70, toward Denver. We should be home in two days, but at Cortez an ominous feeling returned. The town was in a decided state of decay, like a road construction project that never gets completed.
There were no restaurants to choose from, so Stewbert and I grabbed a gas station lunch, or 'gag station' as I like to say. In the parking lot, a person of sketchy characteristics and demeanor approached. He studied our bikes and rasped, "I'll bet the cops don't bother you too much on those."
I smiled halfheartedly and replied, "Nope, they're faster than radar."
The man looked at me, threw his upper torso back, and shrieked in maniacal laughter disproportionate to the quality of joke.
To the east, murky clouds were obscuring the horizon; we were probably going to get wet. I looked at Stewbert, "Time to leave before we get robbed."
As we drove toward Durango, the dark clouds opened up. The mist turned to rain, the rain turned to snow. By now my gloves were thoroughly soaked, and the marked drop in temperature chilled my hands. Still, the road climbed.
An elevation marker indicated the summit, at 6,500 feet. As we descended into Durango, snow turned to rain, and the temperature climbed enough to warm my gear.
Still without headlights, I figured that was as bad as it would get. I had no idea we were running head-straight into a genuine winter storm, high in the Rocky Mountains.
North of Durango, we again experienced rain. Again, the temperature began to drop. The rain turned to snow flurries.
With an increase in elevation, the snow began to stick. The median and shoulders turned white. I glanced down at the leading edges of my motorcycle. Snow and ice had formed a thick shell over the fairings, like barnacles crusted to a shipwreck. Likewise, a steady sheet of ice began to build up on my visor.
I drove with one hand, using the other to break the snow and ice from my helmet. Still, the road climbed. Still, we kept going. It couldn't possibly get any worse than this.
At Silverton we took a break. We learned that the worse was yet to come - the storm was southbound, and the highest elevations were ahead. Stewbert and I warmed ourselves, pondered, and finally decided what the hell, let's go for it.
North of Silverton, it genuinely got worse. In the lead, Stewbert's rear tire skidded and fishtailed more than once. This was a typical mountain road, with twists, turns, switchbacks, and hairpin corners.
Only now, we were driving on slush, in near-blizzard conditions, and there were no guardrails. Around each corner, I glanced over the edge.
Below me were treetops, with nothing to stop the bike in the event of a spill. I was still driving with one hand, barely going the speed limit, attempting to keep my visor clear of ice.
West of Denver the highway topped out at 12,000 feet. The Eisenhower Memorial Tunnel was a packed sheet of glare ice, which we tackled by coasting straight through, with little more holding us upright than the grace of God. Defying logic and all reasonable explanation, it got worse.
Immediately upon exiting the tunnel, directly ahead, were whiteout conditions. Snow was blowing so furiously across the highway, that I literally could not see my hand in front of my face.
We were traveling highway speeds when Stewbert ran into the storm. I watched as his silhouette leaned to the right, to compensate for the wind. Then, he disappeared into the din like an apparition melting away. "Well, here goes." I leaned into the buffeting wind, and followed suit. I remember thinking, "I wonder if the road is icy?"
Well, that was as bad as it got. Descending into Denver, the road began to naturally clear as snow turned to rain.
At a fuel stop, Stewbert and I agreed that it was probably the craziest thing we've ever done, but also strangely worth it. He joked, "I've never been so happy to see 40 degrees and raining my whole life."
Some good did come of our adventure, in the form of an epiphany. On those mountain roads, I tensely strong-armed my bike. Each corner made me nervously wonder if my motorcycle was about to skid out, sending me plunging over the edge to a spectacular death.
Likewise, the bike grunted and snarled in protest, struggling to maintain our snaillike pace up the mountain. Also, it was on this stretch that my motorcycle experienced it's first mechanical failure.
The realization hit me with the force of a sledgehammer, so clear that I laughed out loud in my helmet: "So this is what it feels like to drive a Harley Davidson."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The previous night, without warning, my headlights flickered and went off. Bathed in darkness while traveling 65 miles per hour on a motorcycle was a pretty bad omen.
I found nothing obvious; no blown fuses, broken wires, or loose connections.
The turn signals, tail and brakes, and running lights all worked, but I was without headlights. This problem was not significant enough to halt our progress, just irritating. I stood up and turned to Stewbert, "If this is as bad as it gets, we'll be all right."
Our plan was to take Colorado Highway 160 east, and then 550 north toward Interstate 70, toward Denver. We should be home in two days, but at Cortez an ominous feeling returned. The town was in a decided state of decay, like a road construction project that never gets completed.
There were no restaurants to choose from, so Stewbert and I grabbed a gas station lunch, or 'gag station' as I like to say. In the parking lot, a person of sketchy characteristics and demeanor approached. He studied our bikes and rasped, "I'll bet the cops don't bother you too much on those."
I smiled halfheartedly and replied, "Nope, they're faster than radar."
The man looked at me, threw his upper torso back, and shrieked in maniacal laughter disproportionate to the quality of joke.
To the east, murky clouds were obscuring the horizon; we were probably going to get wet. I looked at Stewbert, "Time to leave before we get robbed."
As we drove toward Durango, the dark clouds opened up. The mist turned to rain, the rain turned to snow. By now my gloves were thoroughly soaked, and the marked drop in temperature chilled my hands. Still, the road climbed.
An elevation marker indicated the summit, at 6,500 feet. As we descended into Durango, snow turned to rain, and the temperature climbed enough to warm my gear.
Still without headlights, I figured that was as bad as it would get. I had no idea we were running head-straight into a genuine winter storm, high in the Rocky Mountains.
North of Durango, we again experienced rain. Again, the temperature began to drop. The rain turned to snow flurries.
With an increase in elevation, the snow began to stick. The median and shoulders turned white. I glanced down at the leading edges of my motorcycle. Snow and ice had formed a thick shell over the fairings, like barnacles crusted to a shipwreck. Likewise, a steady sheet of ice began to build up on my visor.
I drove with one hand, using the other to break the snow and ice from my helmet. Still, the road climbed. Still, we kept going. It couldn't possibly get any worse than this.
At Silverton we took a break. We learned that the worse was yet to come - the storm was southbound, and the highest elevations were ahead. Stewbert and I warmed ourselves, pondered, and finally decided what the hell, let's go for it.
North of Silverton, it genuinely got worse. In the lead, Stewbert's rear tire skidded and fishtailed more than once. This was a typical mountain road, with twists, turns, switchbacks, and hairpin corners.
Only now, we were driving on slush, in near-blizzard conditions, and there were no guardrails. Around each corner, I glanced over the edge.
Below me were treetops, with nothing to stop the bike in the event of a spill. I was still driving with one hand, barely going the speed limit, attempting to keep my visor clear of ice.
West of Denver the highway topped out at 12,000 feet. The Eisenhower Memorial Tunnel was a packed sheet of glare ice, which we tackled by coasting straight through, with little more holding us upright than the grace of God. Defying logic and all reasonable explanation, it got worse.
Immediately upon exiting the tunnel, directly ahead, were whiteout conditions. Snow was blowing so furiously across the highway, that I literally could not see my hand in front of my face.
We were traveling highway speeds when Stewbert ran into the storm. I watched as his silhouette leaned to the right, to compensate for the wind. Then, he disappeared into the din like an apparition melting away. "Well, here goes." I leaned into the buffeting wind, and followed suit. I remember thinking, "I wonder if the road is icy?"
Well, that was as bad as it got. Descending into Denver, the road began to naturally clear as snow turned to rain.
At a fuel stop, Stewbert and I agreed that it was probably the craziest thing we've ever done, but also strangely worth it. He joked, "I've never been so happy to see 40 degrees and raining my whole life."
Some good did come of our adventure, in the form of an epiphany. On those mountain roads, I tensely strong-armed my bike. Each corner made me nervously wonder if my motorcycle was about to skid out, sending me plunging over the edge to a spectacular death.
Likewise, the bike grunted and snarled in protest, struggling to maintain our snaillike pace up the mountain. Also, it was on this stretch that my motorcycle experienced it's first mechanical failure.
The realization hit me with the force of a sledgehammer, so clear that I laughed out loud in my helmet: "So this is what it feels like to drive a Harley Davidson."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
