Exploring the Springs

The Manitou Springs Cliff Dwellings were first on Tuesday morning's agenda. A short caravan of cars and bikes brought us out route 24 to the site. We wandered around and climbed through the dwellings and hid from the heat in the museum. I realized when I pulled out my camera for the first time that week that it was wet. It seemed the rain had leaked into my luggage after all. Most of the photos I took were a little blurry, but once it had time to dry out, it returned to normal.

On the road east, traffic slowed to a crawl, and the two of us on the bikes found ourselves alternately walking and rolling through the crush of cars and the heat. In a few minutes we came upon an accident scene where a cruiser had shrunk the road to one lane. As we picked up speed and rolled through the area, we could clearly see a body lying in the middle of the right lane, an arm and a foot sticking out from underneath a green plaid jacket that had been thrown over the face and chest. One foot was sneakered, and the other sneaker was lying some fifteen feet away on the pavement. A tanker truck was stopped at an angle at the front of the scene.

Kimmy and I looked at each other and shook our heads. My first guess was suicide by truck, and the news confirmed later that that was the case. Around the fire that night, we commiserated about the poor trucker who had been forced to take someone else's life and will forever have to live with that image. Our little group had been fortunate enough to miss the incident by minutes.

From there we went to Garden of the Gods. The parking lot was full, and so were the next one and the next one. Cider and I wandered through the roads and parking lots at a snail's pace, the kind of speed that bikes don't really go because they'd rather fall over. We finally found a space to share after exploring several lots, and we parked and spent a moment flexing our left hands to relieve the strain from so much clutch use. We dismounted, and that was when Kimmy discovered that her camera had also found water while tucked away in the saddle bag.

The two of them took off to the store to get rice, and I went my own way and found a bike shop. I'd busted through my riding gloves somewhere between Massachusetts and Nebraska, and I wanted a set of highway pegs to relieve the pain in my knees. I also wanted a partial helmet, since wandering through town in a full-face was awfully warm, and a cell phone mount so I could use my GPS.

The gloves and the phone mount were an easy find. The pegs turned out to be a millimeter too large for the engine guards on which I wanted to mount them, and when I told the salesman what I wanted in a helmet, he proceeded to talk me right out of it. Apparently studies done with temperature probes have proven that full-face helmets are actually cooler than half or shell helmets. The rider also avoids sunburn and stays better hydrated. He also told me that every crash he's ever been in has resulted in a landing on the chin, because of the human tendency to look at what we're going to hit.

From there I went to a department store to pick up a charging battery for my electronics, and then to a pet store to have my dog tag remade. I don't like being on the road without it. Then I had to go to a craft store for a chain to hang it on, and finally I wandered through several other department and hardware stores looking for breathing fuel. The particular kind I needed was strangely elusive, but eventually I turned it up at an Ace and headed home.

The driveway at the house is narrow and sloped, with a water bar at the street and a gravel patch next to it where we parked the bikes. I approached it cautiously, taking a wide turn and then stopping and backing to get myself properly lined up. All the cars were home, leaving me only just enough space to maneuver. I lined up the bike, checked the ground around me, and started slipping the clutch at walking speed toward the gravel patch. Things looked good and I was confident we were going to make it, when suddenly the left saddle bag bounced off the taillight of the rear car, and the bike leaned right. I couldn't save it, so I dove off into the gravel on my hands and knees. There was a lovely crunch as the side of the bike touched down.

I hit the kill switch, ripped off my helmet, and said a few nasty things. Then I went to the front door, where Danielle appeared.

"Can I have some help?" I asked. "I dropped the bike again."

She looked at it and made a face. "We're going to need some boys for this," she said. "That's a bad angle." The top of the bike was facing down the hill and the wheels were in the air.

I turned off the ignition while Danielle got Cider. The three of us managed to upright her without too much trouble, and I apologized again for dropping the bike again.

"It's an adventure bike," Cider said, patting me on the back. "It's meant to be dropped. Don't worry about it. Now come have a drink." I got myself sorted out and changed into shorts, then joined the clan in the back yard with a plate of pulled pork and cheesecake and a glass of wine. I sat next to Kimmy, and we talked derby and coaching until the sky got dark.

"I think it's time to light this fire," someone said.

"Let me go get some toys," I replied, and went inside. I found an empty rum bottle to hold my fuel and removed the label so no one would think it was good with orange juice. I gave Kimmy a quick explanation of what to do if things went terribly wrong, then returned to the ring of chairs around the unlit fire.

I arranged my towels, tested the wind, checked the distance of the chairs, and added a touch of fuel to the fire pit. Using a long-stemmed lighter, since there was no way I could make a decent torch, I took a knee and let my inner dragon out.

The noise of the explosion panicked the dogs, who scrambled and barked and ran in circles. The fire lit instantly, and I did a few more breaths for show before shutting it down for the evening so I could shower off the fuel and get into the rum.

Red Rocks and Old Friends

On Monday morning we availed ourselves of the hotel's hot tub, probably the most welcome amenity they could have provided to the friendly not-so-local endurance bikers. Then we piled into cars and onto bikes and headed for the Red Rocks Amphitheatre.

I had seen the theater last year with Ann when we went to an Alabama Shakes concert, but this time we walked down to the trailhead center and walked the 1.4 mile loop below it. Dawn, Kelly, Scotty, and I grouped up by our pace. It was beautiful but hot, and we'd had fewer than 24 hours to adjust to the altitude. By the time we arrived back at the visitors' center, we were ready for a break. But I had plans in Boulder, so I walked back up the road, discovering that it was longer than I remembered. By the time I was halfway up the stairs to the main parking lot, I felt like I'd run a race. Fortunately Kimmy and Cider chose that moment to appear and ask me where the rest of the group was, and I took a break to chat.

"Oh hey," I said to Cider as they went on their way again, "Can you help me upright the bike so I can leave?" I'd parked it with a lean toward the left again, and I knew I'd need a hand.

"I could," he said, "But you can't leave."

"Why not?"

"Your helmet is in Scotty's car."

"Fuck." No longer in a hurry, I wandered to the parking lot, had a snack, and waited for Scotty. He appeared pretty shortly, jogging and out of breath.

"I hope you didn't run for me!" I said.

"Nah," he panted. "Dawn and I had a deal. We ran."

He gave me back my helmet, and by the time I was ready to go, the group was starting to filter back. Cider helped me upright the bike (after the necessary moment to laugh at me, of course), and I was off to Boulder.

I found my destination with relatively few wrong turns, and soon I was sitting on a wicker bench on the porch of a beautiful corner house, waiting for the occupants to come home. There was a breeze rustling the plants and trees in the yard, and I was grateful just to be sitting still in the shade.

It wasn't long before I heard a voice calling from around the corner in the front yard, and Jayne appeared. I jumped up from the bench and down the steps to give her a hug. When I stopped to do the math later, I realized we hadn't seen each other in sixteen years.

I'd followed her inside when another voice called hello from the yard, and I realized that Jon was there, too. I returned to the outdoors for another hug.

Jon brought me a giant mug of iced tea, and we sat in the living room and tried to catch up on a decade and a half of news. It took us all evening, a walk with the dog around Pearl Street, and a wonderful dinner prepared by Jon. I had all but forgotten it was a holiday, and I couldn't have spent it in a better way.

As I geared up to roll at the end of the evening, big thunderheads were appearing toward the south and along the mountain ridge, teasing me with lightning. I did up my rain gear, with a promise not to wait another sixteen years to get together again, and took off south.

The rain stayed in the foothills, and my drive down I25 through Denver was clear, hot, and spangled with fireworks in every corner of my vision. I must have seen twenty different shows happen, red and green and blue sparkling flowers blooming everywhere as nighttime took over the sky and celebration of independence exploded over the city.

Arrival in Colorado

Sunday's miles were so easy in comparison to Saturday's that I barely remember them. With only 350 to go, our morning at Norm's was relaxed and our gas stops were long. Rumor had it that we would hit more rain, but rumor was blessedly wrong. It was dry and cloudy, then dry and sunny. Somewhere in western Nebraska, we sat on a sidewalk and talked derby for half an hour while eating protein bars. I put away the rain suit.

The air was hot by the time we saw WELCOME TO COLORFUL COLORADO. Cider shot me a thumbs up, and I sped by him to pump my fist in the air. Just like last year, an overwhelming sense of accomplishment came with the sight of that sign. Goal: met.

At the next stop, I met a pair of friendly bikers (currently in a car because the wife had suffered an accident that broke 14 ribs and several of her vertebrae; ironically, it happened not on a bike but in the back of an ambulance while she was working as an EMT). I asked them to take our picture, the two nutty bikers who actually made it to Colorado together. After some chatting, I locked my jacket away, replaced it with my long-sleeved shirt, and we began the last leg.

The weather was my kind of perfect, probably a little too warm for my riding buddy but just right for me. The miles disappeared like fog under sunlight, and when we crested a hill and the road opened up in front of us, straight and bright and flat for a solid mile, I couldn't resist. I tucked my feet back on the rear pegs, flattened myself to the tank, and opened the throttle. I took the other lane and blew by Cider, passed a car, and kept going. The wind and the steady vibration were exhilarating, and I grinned to myself inside the helmet.

Eventually the bike stopped accelerating, and after noting her top speed (with bags, at least) I sat up and slowed down. I was startled to realize that I couldn't even see Cider anymore, but that car I had passed was still with me. Suddenly concerned that it was an unmarked cruiser, I kept a sharp eye on it, but eventually it passed. Cider caught up a minute later and gave me another thumbs up as he returned to the lead position.

A little north of Denver, we landed at his friend Mike's house. Mike and his wife Freida invited us in and fed us cold drinks, and we sat on the couch and talked and played with their two goofy chihuahuas. The boys reminisced about rides they'd done, and Mike said he'd make time to come ride with us this week.

Our lengthy gas stops had eaten up some of the day, and it wasn't long before Mike glanced at his phone and told us we should go.

"We've got time," Cider said, checking his GPS to be sure.

"No," Mike said, "There's hail coming in. You guys should go now."

I've never ridden in hail myself, but I saw the pictures of Cider after his last ride through the stuff, and I'd informed him before we left that if we hit hail I'd be stopping to wait it out. I felt no need to be covered in golf-ball-sized welted bruises. We said our goodbyes to Mike and Freida and got back on I25.

From there it was an hour or so to Aurora, where we found the hotel and several more friends. I had Facebook stalked the group enough to be able to keep the faces with the names, so by the time we were having drinks in the lobby, I could actually identify everyone around me.

We piled into the van and went to Sam's Number 3 for dinner, where I asked get-to-know-you questions and tried to keep everyone's stories straight. Other than asking Dave where he was from three different times, I didn't do too badly.

When dinner was done, I was last in line to pay my check, and the rest of the group had gone outside. As the cashier handed me back my credit card, a woman walked behind me with her hands over her mouth and spewed vomit over 20 feet of floor. One of the servers scooted behind the desk and said, with a shell-shocked look, "I just got puked on. I just got puked on. I just got puked on." She missed me by a scant foot.

Evening in Holdrege

Norm greeted us with hugs, and we talked about the ride while peeling off layer after layer of sopping wet gear. We hung jackets and pants from the bikes and made a pile of things to put in the dryer. Then I escaped to the shower to finally get warm.

When I returned to the living room, we took our mound of wet things and separated them into "normal clothes" and "things that might not like being in a dryer." The latter group included gloves and rain suits, and they went in on Super Delicate. Then Norm poured us drinks, and we sat down and started catching up.

Norm had bought a new truck and a fifth-wheel camper, having sold his house to do some traveling. The camper hadn't been retrieved yet, but we went in the other garage and drooled over the shiny new truck, a Chevy doolie that barely fit in the space. He described all the features and told us about a friend of his who makes his living delivering new campers to customers. Cider was suddenly animated and full of questions, wanting to know if there might be another job opening in that field. Norm promised to get him some info.

When the dryer beeped, I went to check on the gear. The first thing I found was a small wrist band.

"Fuck," I announced.

"What happened?" Cider asked from the kitchen, sounding concerned. "Did we melt the gear?"

"Nope," I answered, walking out of the laundry and hanging my head. "But your iPod is very dry now."

It had been in pocket of my rain jacket and I'd completely forgotten. It didn't come to life.

"I owe you an iPod," I said. "I'm sorry!"

I'd love to post a picture of the three of us, but nobody thought to take one. Norm did get one of me and Cider, captioning us the newest guests at Norm's B and B.

The rain suits fortunately survived, unlike the iPod. After throwing in the other clothes, we left the house (in the new truck, of course) and went to visit Judy, Norm's wife. I'd missed meeting her last year by arriving too late, and I was glad to make up for that. The four of us chatted about road travel and the truck and the quality of the sandwiches her staff was serving.

After a few minutes we headed for dinner. Norm took us to The Speakeasy in Sacramento, a ghost town that seems to have nothing living in it outside the restaurant. On the way in, four people were making their way out, and every one of them greeted us politely. Norm greeted them all in return, and Cider and I exchanged a look.

"We're not in New England anymore," I said, and he just shook his head.

In the restaurant, I made up for another lost opportunity by getting prime rib; what else can you eat while in Nebraska but beef? It was wonderful, as were the company and the conversation (and the finally being warm). Sixteen hundred miles in 36 hours made the relaxation feel so good.

We stopped for booze and then went back to the house. The night ended after only one drink, though, as we were falling asleep in our chairs. A full night's sleep was calling, and I couldn't help but answer.

Water, Water Everywhere

When the alarm went off on Saturday morning, I wanted to punch someone, but I was too tired. Instead I grumbled for several minutes, then hauled myself out of bed and stumbled my way into my pants and boots. I stopped in the lobby for a quick coffee, just enough to wash down the ibuprofen.

"You going to eat anything?" Cider asked while we were packing up the bikes.

"Nah," I answered. "Too early."

"Did you take pain pills?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to what you said yesterday about protecting your stomach?"

"I had some orange juice," I said.

He gave me a Look. "So the orange juice and the coffee are going to help by making your stomach more acidic?"

"Who are you to be lecturing me about breakfast?" I demanded.

"Rogue told me to make sure you eat," he said. "She didn't tell me to keep you alive; just to make sure you eat."

"Fine," I said. "I'll have a snack while you gas up."

He rode to the gas station next door, and I set about finding the extra key that I suddenly realized wasn't in my hand. After a couple of panicked moments I found it in the pocket of my hoodie, which I was wearing underneath two jackets. Then I found the gas station and dutifully stuffed down some beef jerky.

Only two days have passed between living this experience and writing about it, but so many miles in so little time is starting to blur together in my memory. I don't actually remember when the phone moment occurred, but I'll put it here.

We were flying down I80 in the passing lane when Cider reached sideways suddenly, and then I saw a small black box that was probably his phone go bouncing away across the pavement and land on the shoulder. We pulled over to the left shoulder, and he started walking back. I sat on the bike for a moment, then decided I didn't want to be a target for a sleepy truck driver, so I dismounted too and stood on the shoulder to wait.

Slowing from the speed we'd been going had taken a while, and he probably had to walk half a mile to find the escaped device. Eventually he returned with a phone that was fortunately still working. We exchanged ready-to-go thumbs up and I got back on the bike. That's when I realized how far the crown of the road had tipped us, and after several valiant attempts to pull the bike off the kickstand, I realized it wasn't going to happen.

"Cider," I yelled, hoping he could hear me through my helmet and his earplugs. He turned around. "Help!" I said, and he walked back and pushed me upright, laughing.

"Don't die getting back on the road," he said, and I nodded. "Seriously. Don't die."

We returned to speed with no death and continued west.

It was cool and cloudy as we headed for Iowa. After two or three gas stops it started to rain. I was already wearing my gear because I get cold easily, but Cider had to stop and put his on under a bridge. The unfamiliarity of new boots and new rain pants kept him doing the Awkward Pants Dance for nearly ten minutes, while I sat in my saddle and watched the show, grinning. Laughing at each other's dumbassery is good fun as long as we both take turns.

At the next gas stop, we griped about the rain. It wasn't pouring, but my shield was fogging and making visibility difficult, and he had zipped his jacket incorrectly and soaked all of his shirts. He changed into dry clothes, I snacked, and we were off again.

My rain gear wasn't working particularly well. When gear fails while riding, it almost always starts with the crotch, as the rain is funneled down the bike's seat and into the rider's nether regions. Not long after that began, my boots started to squish, and then my gloves. By the time we stopped again, I was wringing out my gloves and my neck fleece, and I refused to even take my helmet off. Cider's new pants had failed too, and we were both soaked and freezing. With 200 miles still to go, we had no way to get dry, so we made pained faces at each other and just rode on.

My iPod had died and Cider lent me his extra, but that quit after about twenty miles and I rode in silence. Desperately needing a distraction from the cold, I started playing the picnic game with myself.

"I'm going to a picnic, and I'm bringing... An apple. A banana. A cookie." And so on through the alphabet. It takes a while because you have to repeat everything you've already said before adding a new item. It's supposed to be played with multiple people. I discovered that one round by myself occupied about twenty miles.

After 300 miles of miserable wet and cold, at long last we landed in Holdrege, Nebraska, in Norm's blessedly dry garage.

Saddle Sore (1000 in 24)

I've been in physical therapy for the past couple of months for a herniated disc in my low back. When I told my PTA I was going on this trip, she raised her eyebrows and said, "Well that'll be a test of your back." I bought a back brace and lots of ibuprofen and Tylenol, and the PTA gave me some stretches to do at gas stops.

Our first stop was 145 miles in. My back was cramping, so I did some stretching and took some ibuprofen. After that the stops started to run together. 260 miles, 370, 470...I put gas in the bike every other (the joy of a huge tank), snacked, stretched, and took pain pills. I played with different riding positions and discovered that depending on where I rest my feet, I have a choice between back pain or knee pain. Infinitely preferable to being forced into one of the two.

At 600-something miles, Cider said, "So here's the deal... We can make Joliet tonight. We'll get there about 10:30 and have a little over 900 miles. But." He looked at me sideways. "Do you want to hit a thousand?"

I grinned. "You know I do."

He calculated the mileage and booked a hotel in Peru, IL. "That's it. We don't have a choice now. I'm going there, and I hope you're coming with me."

"Oh, I'll be there," I said. But I'd been feeling sleepy for the last fifty miles. "I never thought I'd say this, but can I have one of your Red Bulls?"

"Of course. There a cold one in the cooler."

I drank half, took some Tylenol, and we were back on the road.

Maybe twenty miles later, I started to feel strange. Tired, unsteady, and stupid. I wondered if the exhaust fumes were getting to me, and zigged back and forth in my lane, trying to position myself where I couldn't smell Cider's bike. I couldn't seem to control my speed, though, and I kept finding myself tailgating his trailer.

So this is what happens to me when road exhaustion sets in. I thought about stopping, but figured I should get as many miles done as I could while I still could, since I was probably just going to keep getting worse. Besides, the thought of stopping was actually terrifying. I could keep the bike going on the road, but when I imagined trying to do complicated things like take an exit and come to a stop, all I could picture was stumbling off the bike and dropping it on myself. So I rode on.

I was wondering how other bikers do it. Why was I more affected by the exhaust fumes than most other people? We overtook yet another tractor trailer, and as we went by, I saw it wobble and start to tip over. Alarmed, I scooted sideways to get away. Cider showed no sign of having noticed anything unusual, and as we completed the pass, I realized the truck was fine and the only problem was in my head.

Eventually we stopped for gas. "You ready for some dinner?" he asked.

"I'm ready to do something other than ride this damn bike," I answered.

"Me too," he agreed. But the diner we had found was closed for renovation, so after filling up the bikes, we hopped back on the road. Twenty miles further on, we hit a rest stop and actually had dinner. Even before we sat down, I was already feeling better. By the time I finished my stromboli, I was ready to ride again. In fifty more miles, my head was completely clear, and I realized it wasn't road fumes but in fact something about the Red Bull (possibly combined with the Tylenol) that had messed with my head. I swore not to drink any more, and was grateful I'd only had half the can.

Miles 600-700 weren't bad at all. By 900, I was cold, and by 970 I was sleepy again. I've never had a problem with being sleepy on a bike before, but I felt about ready to topple off into the road. I started singing to myself to keep my eyes open.

At mile 1010, we finally arrived at the hotel. We parked under the portico (something many hotels apparently allow bikers to do if you ask), grabbed our things, and wandered inside in a fog. At least, I was in a fog. I have a vague memory of taking a shower before falling face-first into the bed and passing out cold.

On the Road Again

After last year's success, I really wanted to go on the road again this year. Abel and I started planning a road trip, but broke up before it could happen. That same week, my friend Cider had posted a picture of his new bike all kitted out for touring in preparation for his yearly adventure to the West.

"Wish I was going with you!" I commented.

The reply came back, "So come along."

I laughed. Six days' notice to go on a cross-country road trip? "And if you're doing those crazy 800-mile days, I can't handle that," I said. Then I forgot about it.

The next evening, he messaged me to say hi, and picked up on the fact that I wasn't doing too well.

"You should come with me," he said.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah, why not?"

I dismissed the idea, and five minutes later was figuring out what I'd need to pack.

I saw him the next day at one of our games, and he asked, "So how serious are you?"

"Yes," I answered. "Please. I need to get the hell out of Dodge." And with that I joined the adventure.

He asked if I wanted to borrow his extra bike, expressing some concern about the state of Hades. "I'd hate to leave you stranded in the middle of the country if yours breaks down," he said. "But, ya know, I will if I have to."

"Does this extra bike have a windshield?"

It turned out this extra bike not only has a windshield, but is brand new, with only 2000 miles on it, gets 50mpg in a 6.3 gallon tank, and has giant locking hard bags. I met up with him in the middle of the week to take it for a test ride.

"Why aren't you riding it?" I asked.

He looked sheepish. "Cuz it'll get me in trouble."

I was puzzled by that, at least until I drove it home. It wasn't until I saw blue lights that I realized I was doing 80 in a 50, down a twisty, hilly state route where I'd normally stick to 60. When I got home, I texted him: "I get it now. I'm gonna get in so much trouble on this thing."

It also has a very high seat and center of gravity, a long fork travel, and touchy brakes. I nearly dumped it while parking at work the next morning, but managed not to. I figured that with a little more time, the bike and I would become good friends.

Thursday night I packed, finding that all my things fit in the hard bags with room to spare (made easier by the fact that we weren't planning to camp). Friday morning at 6:15, he showed up in my driveway, as I was realizing that I'd misplaced my dog tag, the one I always wear while biking that has my emergency contact info on it. I gave up on it, locked the house, and realized my house keys were missing, too. I decided I'd worry about it when I returned. By 6:30 we were rolling out.

I noticed after I left the driveway that there wasn't as much gas in the tank as I thought, so I gestured at the gas station and pulled in. I was excited, jittery, and not focused, and I pulled up to the pump too fast and grabbed at the brakes. The next thing I knew, the bike was leaning hard left. I fought it with everything I had, but my leverage was wrong and down she went.

Cursing, I hit the kill switch and immediately started trying to walk her upright. Cider pulled in next to me and was parking when a stranger came running over from somewhere, grabbed the bike, and helped me pull it upright. I didn't even have time to thank him before he disappeared again.

"Fuck," I said to Cider, who was now standing next to me, grinning.

"You're okay," he said.

"Yup. I got that out of the way," I said, trying to hide how hard I was shaking. "We're done with that, now things can go right. Every jam is a new jam."

"Yup," he agreed.

"I swear I haven't done that before!" I said.

"It's okay," he told me.

I stopped blathering and put gas in the tank, then gave him directions to the highway. We pulled back into the street while I tried to ignore the voice in my head calling me a clueless, clumsy idiot.

We got on 91 and then 90, and he wedged himself into traffic in front of a tractor trailer. I saw the truck's brake lights come on and immediately lost him in traffic.

Well, I thought, Now we've each had our stupid moment. Hopefully we've used them up.

I darted around the cars clogging the entrance ramp area - that bike really does dart quite well - sped up, and found Cider ahead of the mess. I fell into formation behind him, and we were off into the great wide open.