My readers here are veterans of my motorcycling Ride Reports, but for those unfamiliar with the format, a brief explanation.
I belong to a group of motorcyclists who specialize in Safe, Long Distance Motorcycling. As part of that community I enter Long Distance Rallies. The format is a scavenger hunt, the difference is the scale.
There are no prizes for being the first back to the finish. Only a combination of meticulous preparation, flawless execution and the ability to sit on a motorcycle for many hours will get the job done.
Even then the only prize is the respect of your fellow riders, but that is a prize beyond the dreams of avarice.
This event was hosted by a first-time Rally Master whose main advantage was the backdrop of Colorado in which to organise a thirty two hour event. There would be no points available for rest stops on this one, all the points were on the road ... we would have to ride to earn every one.
What happened next is below the orange roadkill.
From California they came, from the Pacific North West, Southern Plains and further, a group of twenty three riders gathered in Georgetown, CO, for the five am start of this Rally. Many rode well over a thousand miles to to be at the start, and afterwards they rode home, content with a job well done.
They roll in quietly, then greet old friends and new. The parking lot is filled with motorcycles the like of which few ever see, and when they do it is briefly at a gas station, or scenic stop that has been selected as a bonus location. From Honda, Yamaha, Suzuki, BMW and even the odd Harley Davidson, none of them look like their manufacturers intended. All are bedecked with stickers from places as far apart as Key West and Prudhoe Bay, all are decorated with an array of electronic equipment, auxiliary gas tanks, and many carry the mud and scars they have picked up during rides past. These riders think little of riding one thousand miles for lunch, or a hotdog, and this jaunt is just a little weekend fun. There is, however, a quiet determination evident on the faces ... they came to do business!
For my own part this rally was to be a little different. Some of you will remember my old bike, a 1986 Yamaha Venture Royale, a veteran of ten rallies over the last three years. We had some modest success together, but in April it became clear that the old girl had reached her potential when we again finished third behind the same two riders, both friends, as the previous year. For the life of me I could see no way to close the gap. I couldn't ask any more of the Venture than it was giving, and I needed a better rally bike.
Six weeks ago I got one, a 2005 Yamaha FJR1300. With 88 000 miles already under its wheels it had proven that it could cover the ground, now we had to get to know each other. I rapidly transferred most of the specialist equipment from my old bike to the new, made a few adjustments and bought a set of LED Driving Lights to replace the lights I had on the previous machine. There will be more about those lights later, let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The main issue for me was that the seven hundred and fifty mile ride from home to Georgetown would be the shakedown ride. I hadn't the time to put in miles before the event. You can prepare all you like, but the real test of whether or not your rally bike fits you, is something you find out on the road, at three in the morning, ten miles down a dirt track. This rally was a proving ground and I planned accordingly.
So let's cut to the chase, and own the mea maxima culpa right up front. While it is true that I intended to plan an easy route, if thirty two hours and fourteen hundred miles on a motorcycle can ever be described thus, I failed in my due diligence. One of the things I normally do well is plan. One this occasion, even knowing that mountains would figure highly (sic), I failed to check closely enough the roads my routing software suggested. My easy ride was about to become anything but that. This is unforgivable really, and it is another lesson learned.
Five am rolled around and the parking lot of the Georgetown Mountain Inn must have looked a strange sight to an interested observer. Twenty three motorcycles, engines running and lights ablaze rolled out in single file, all heading to Interstate 70, and the rest of the state later. I was almost the last out having a high Rider Number, and from my seat it was an amazing spectacle. Justin, the Rally Master, pointing at each rider in turn and waving them off. As the final tail light disappeared around the corner all he could do now was sit by the phone and watch the tracking on his computer, as his riders traversed Colorado for the next day and a half. I would think that is almost as hard as the riding. It's okay for us, we are all out doing what we love to do. For the Rally staff it must be part fun, part nervous anxiety as they watch and hope for the safe return of us all. We owe them a large debt of gratitude. Without the people prepared to spend the time and energy to organise the events, there would be none for us to ride.
My first stop was a historic marker, Silver Plume, a mere two miles from the starting line. If there is a close early bonus I like to go get it. Doing that settles me into the routine of running a rally. Having that first small bonus in the bag means the event is on, and it helps get my head in the right place for what is to come. I knew that most of the pack would be heading to the west of the state. Points were offered both for traditional bonus locations and for riding the scenic routes on the Colorado DOT website. I also knew that to make a success of the western routes a rider would have to cover a lot of miles. I chose to run down central Colorado during daylight, then head up the eastern border during the night. There were decent points available on this route, but the real reason was that I don't have a heated jacket and the thought of being caught high in the mountains in the early hours was not an attractive one. A prosaic decision, but it had some potential. In the end I did have a heated jacket. On hearing of my plight, Erik Lipps brought a spare one and loaned it to me. Of all the ironies, while I was toasty, Erik was not as his jacket failed. He rode a monster ride and finished second, so don't feel too bad for him although he does know he has my gratitude for the kindness.
Bonus locations, such as the one on the left, came and went as I made my way west and south through some of the most glorious scenery I have seen since I was last in the Alps. One wonderful vista followed another. I know it is summer and there is snow only on the high peaks, but even with what they have to put up with in the winter, Coloradans are indeed a fortunate bunch. To my disappointment, however, despite riding some fourteen hundred miles, not once was I offered any of the now legal plant that is grown in increasing quantities. What I was regularly offered was 85 octane gas at absurdly high prices for this resident of Oklahoma!
Nonetheless, the ride was living up to everything I hoped it would be. We were all a little concerned at the amount of traffic that might doing its best to slow progress to a crawl. I rode one of the scenic routes that morning. It was around one hundred miles of sweeping bends and fun on every level. I think in the first eighty miles I only passed two cars, and saw few others. Do they sleep late around here, or are they all stoned until lunchtime? Whatever, I'll be coming back for more!
To demonstrate that we had ridden the scenic routes in the correct manner we had to obtain receipts, or photograph city signs or official buildings in the correct order. This is not a difficult thing to do, but I tried my hardest to make it so. To get this picture I parked the bike at the side of the road and walked down the bank for the shot. As I was standing with my back to my motorcycle I heard the terrible sound of something crashing to the ground. I knew what it was and was so sickened that I didn't look round. I took the photo and then turned to inspect the damage. The bike had fallen over, and down the slight hill. I never want to see my tires pointing to the heavens, but what I want didn't seem to be important right then. A guy in a pick-up stopped and we righted the bike easily enough. I quickly glanced over it an saw immediately that one of the wonderful new lights I had bought was hanging loose by it's cable, and there were some cracks in some very expensive plastic. I tied up the light for the moment and left. I can think as well as ride, and I think best when I don't feel I am wasting time at the side of the road. There was a long way to go still, and I was not about to start wasting it fretting over this incident. Still, it sucked! One a more positive note, one problem I was having was now receding. Ever since I bought the FJR I was having trouble connecting with it. Somehow it didn't feel like it was my bike, I lacked familiarity with the thing. On the basis that "You broke it, so you own it", that was a diminishing issue. Indeed, this entire weekend has taught me so much about both myself and my motorcycle that I am really looking forward to the next few years ... and it carries the scars already.
I'm not really one to dwell on things like this. I broke the bike ... so it will still be broken whether I worry about it or not. Far better to concentrate on the matter in hand, and other than my compromised lighting there wasn't much to be concerned about just then. The real pity was that I had recently installed the lights and I am going to shamelessly plug them. They are the Model LR5 from LEDRider.com. They are 5000 lumens each with a hybrid spot/flood beam. What that means is that when they come on with my high beams I just lit up the equivalent of about six extra car high beams to add to the two on the bike. That is an impressive amount of light in an economical package, and they do exactly what it says on the box. So now I was going to have to manage with just three extra headlights, I think it will be fine!
My place in the history of this rally already secured (bent bikes are always a great talking point back at the finish), I headed off to the next bonus location. This was a picture of the St Elmo General Store in an old mining town. While the day had thus far not been boring, it was about to get a whole lot more interesting and challenging.
The ride into St Elmo includes a good few miles on dirt roads. Indeed, over the course of this event I was going to become very familiar with some of Colorado's dirt roads, but this was the first encounter. It was maybe five miles of graded and hard-packed dirt with loose stones and gravel on top. I am not unfamiliar with this type of road as Oklahoma has many hundreds of miles of them. However, on my old bike they were treated very carefully as it really wasn't suited to this kind of surface. The FJR ate it up and asked for more, a very pleasant surprise, and we arrived in St Elmo feeling happy and confident ... Oh Steve, you dumb bastard ... you should have known it was all a bit too good to be true.
What I should have done next, and would have done had I planned correctly, is ridden back out the way I came in and gone the eighty miles to the next location on tarmac, just as God intended. But no, that is just too sensible, and Ms Garmin, the soothing voice of my GPS who sounds like the honeyed tones of the girl the cops use to lure out child molesters, she knew a shortcut. Turn right and drive six miles.
So I, being a compliant and unquestioning sucker, did exactly as instructed. What I didn't know, but found out soon enough, was that I was being sent into the jaws of hell, otherwise known as Hancock Pass, a ride that is suitable for quadbikes and dirt bikes, and definitely not suitable for sports/touring motorcycles that are heavily loaded and covered in thousands of dollars worth of plastic, and road tires. To top it off, the bike has a ground clearance not much more generous than that of a snail.
This photograph is of the easier lower elevation. From this point the surface gradually deteriorated into a goat trail, and one suitable only for the more nimble goats. Seriously, I found myself confronted with the kind of road that looks like it was designed for the set of Mad Max, complete with boulders, and the spaces between filled with rocks that behaved like ball bearings.
On and up we plodded, me allowing the bike to find its own way up with just the occasional encouragement from the hapless rider. Six miles up we went, comforted only by the knowledge that this was a time-saving shortcut. Made it in one piece up to 11077 feet, not quite the top but at the point of the Alpine Tunnel. We would have made it to the top, and I expect we would have made it down the other side too, with some luck, but not on that day.
Ms Garmin, the treacherous hussy, insisted that I now turn right. Yeah, like that was going to happen. The road was closed! Apparently Coloradans are concerned that too many FJR1300s are ripping up their mountains, so the next part of this route is only open in August. We can't wait that long and there is now only one option. I didn't dwell on it but now I had to ride the six miles back down AND the eighty road miles to the next location. I wasn't bothered by what we had just achieved together, a feat that on another day would have been awesome, I was bothered by the hour wasted from my schedule that would be hard to recoup. When I finally reached the regular dirt road, that a few hours earlier filled me with anxiety, it looked like the Interstate. When I think about it now, I may have been the first rider ever to take an FJR so high up the Hancock Pass. This would be something to take pride in were it not for the simple fact that no one else is quite that stupid.
There was an odd moment when I remembered a few lines from a Harry Potter movie. The bit where Professor McGonagle is chiding Harry and Ron after they defeated a fully-grown mountain troll, and put it down to "Pure dumb luck"!
After completing the Collegiate Peaks scenic route it was time to head south for New Mexico, via the site of the Ludlow Massacre. My chosen starting point for the Santa Fe Trail was in Raton, NM, and this route would bridge the day into the night. I was also getting hungry not having eaten at all that day. I intended waiting until it was dark because although I thoroughly enjoy the night riding, I also prefer not to stop so as to maximize the miles in daylight. Hunger got the better of me and I chose McDonalds in Trinidad, only fair because the last time I was there I went to Burger King. That was during a Rally that I failed to finish, a healthy reminder not to let that happen again. Another reason for choosing McDs is that they serve drinkable coffee, and I wanted some. Fuel for the rider taken care of I could head to Raton and start my next section.
All went well until I was leaving Trinidad headed for Bent's Old Fort. As I climbed above the city it began to rain. Away in the distance I could see a lightning storm and my road was heading right for it. I stopped and pulled out all the gear needed to waterproof everything, including me, and carried on. As I crossed the Comanche National Grassland lightning was hitting the ground on both sides of the road and far too close for comfort. This is dangerous stuff and no time to be out riding a motorcycle. I was desperately looking for somewhere, anywhere that I could shelter for a while but in vain. The tallest structures around were blades of grass until I eventually spotted a derelict barn-like structure at the side of the road. Pull up, engine off and everything stowed in the barn I felt a bit safer, although there was a limit to how long I could spend there without seriously compromising my ride. I didn't need my Rally Flag in that picture, but good habits are as difficult to break as bad ones.
The other issue is that back at base folk are watching the progress of the riders. They might notice I am stopped in a place I have little reason to stop. They will check Streetview and see that the bike has halted in a remote area for no good reason ... and get jittery. A quick text message to Justin fixed that and I could take stock. Sitting in a barn is really not the way to perform well in a rally, but there are more important things, such as making it safely home to a family that loves me.
I was there about thirty minutes before the worst had eased off and although the storm appeared to be stationary, the intensity had lessened some and I continued on my way. It still scared the crap out of me, but I made it safely through.
It was a salutary feeling to realize that the eighty miles I covered in little over an hour followed one of the routes taken by the early pioneers. That distance could easily have taken them a week in their covered wagons, and the hardships they must have suffered are quite unimaginable in this age of fast transport and always-on communications. What we are attempting on this rally is considered difficult by most people, but in paying tribute to our forefathers I feel a deep sense of gratitude to their very real suffering.
It had been raining for several hours and I was finally pleased that it stopped. Rain brings slick roads, reduced visibility especially for those who wear glasses, and a general feeling that this is not motorcycling at its best. What it also brings is cooler temperatures, and that is always welcome. Rain, slick streets and darkness are not, however, a good combination. I am beginning to trust this bike more and more yet I am still pleased that the roads are drying out.
A mere couple of years ago I would become anxious as night began to fall. In all of my forty years of motorcycling there had never really been the need or desire to ride at night. It was a skill I had to learn because time waits for no one, and even when a rally has a "rest bonus", there will still be many hours of darkness to ride through. It didn't take long before I began to actively look forward to the additional opportunities afforded by night time riding. Cooler temperatures, less traffic, fewer cops around pointing their death rays at you in an attempt to raise the cash to buy themselves another armored vehicle, and a general sense of freedom. It's hard to explain. It's also a good time to ride across the southern plains. Boring at the best of times, at least in the dark you don't know the landscape is monotonous.
Another reason to be grateful for the superb lighting was my next location. I was heading for the site of the Sand Creek Massacre. To access this site requires riding ten miles in from the south on dirt roads, and ten miles out to the north on the same. One of the riders at the hotel had tried to advise me not to attempt this bonus, especially at night, but it was a lot of points and it stayed on the schedule. As I approached I was wondering, given the events of the morning, just how bad it could be.
I only had one of my lights helping me. The other was pointing vaguely in a forward direction, the effect being reminiscent of someone with a glass eye; one eye looking at you, one eye looking for you! In the event it was simple. Twenty minutes in, grab the photo and twenty minutes out. Some people worry too much. Maybe I am being unkind, which is not my intent at all because I am also open to the suggestion that the increased experience I am gaining is beginning to bring its rewards. The high contrast light of the LEDs lit the road beautifully allowing me to see every pebble and rut, and avoid those that might cause a problem. The other hidden benefit of the lights is their effect on on-coming motorists. The ones who refuse to switch to low-beam as they approach. A quick flick of my high-beams, even from half a mile away brings swift compliance. Even Mr Angry does not want a pissing contest with thirteen thousand lumens!
I know that these reports are read by a variety of people, some of whom are those seeking to gain experience in events such as this; as I read them with that motive when I began rallying. I still read them, and my riding still benefits. In each one I try to include the difficulties I faced and how they were overcome. My concern in this event was that I had never before attempted to ride for thirty two hours straight. I was wholly unsure that I could manage that safely. While there would be no rest bonus, that doesn't mean that you cannot rest. Riders must always put the safety of themselves or others first. This is a game, you cannot win if you crash because to perform well you first have to finish. This has to be stressed. Riders must learn the signs that they are fatigued, and get off the bike. It won't hurt you much as you will not be the only one, but even if you are you must stop if you need to.
As well as the loan of the heated jacket I had a second reason to be grateful to Erik Lipps. A couple of weeks previously he had messaged me asking how I manage to stay motivated during the long rides. I replied by reminding him that he had just won a ten day rally by a considerable margin. We chatted around that subject for a while. When I came to wonder if I could hit thirty two hours straight, I remembered that Erik had done exactly that on the third day of that rally. It was all the inspiration I needed to set off with some quiet confidence that I could do it.
As I head for Beecher Island and the one hundred and fifty four points it offers I am feeling good. It is warm and dry. I am grateful for the warmth which confirmed that at least some of my planning was effective, and the lightning storm I had ridden through was giving an impressive light show although it was now far behind. This bonus is another that it paid to research in advance. Again it involved about seven miles of dirt, but that could be reduced to an easy three miles with some planning.
The bonus was an easy reach, made more entertaining by the family who were camping in the grounds. It can be a little worrying when three big guys approach as you are setting up to take a picture, buried deep in rural eastern Colorado, well after midnight. However, despite the vast quantities of beer they had obviously consumed they just wanted to chat and admire the bike. Nice guys who would sleep long into the next day, and a part of me envied them.
The Indian Wars poster is the start of the next scenic route on my plan and I left Beecher Island heading for there. I was conscious that I was at least two hours behind schedule at this point. Hancock Pass, the waiting out of the storm and the general effect of riding through the rain had all conspired to slow me down a bit. I was aware the the optional extra points on my plan were probably gone, and the primary route might be compromised. I had a time-check built in at the end of this scenic route that would determine how I completed the last part of the rally.
I'm also conscious that I am tired. Not the level of fatigue that requires that I stop, but the tiredness that comes with twenty four hours of riding, much of it technically challenging, and the cold grey watches of the night. The bonus is that it will soon be light, and with the light comes extra energy and the knowledge that the end is in sight. I stopped in a small town for coffee at a gas station. The pots were empty but the store guy was making fresh. The minute he told me it would take was timed on a different clock to the one we use in civilization, but the coffee was wonderful and he only charged me the re-fill price because I had to wait. Small kindnesses like this always make me feel good, it gives me hope that in a difficult world, underneath it all people really do care.
The town of Ault was the critical time-check, and I had busted through it. My written plan was fixed to the top of my tank bag and it contained everything I needed to maximise the points I could get on the run back to the barn. Ten am, when you have been riding for twenty nine hours is not the time to be having to make new route plans. These should all have been done in advance and I had four alternative routes to the finish already programmed. The one I would pick was determined simply by checking the time at Ault.
Given the time, I had to drop the final scenic route and the large number of points that went with it, but I could substitute Annie the Dog and two other decent points opportunities close to the direct route to the finish. My original plan would have grabbed these bonuses anyway, plus another short scenic route. All told I was up for around 2400 points at the finish, but that relied on everything being perfect, and as you already know, it was far from that. I never dwell on this kind of thing. I still have three hours hard riding to do and the time to consider what might have been is later, when you are using that assessment to judge how you planned and rode; and the outcomes you could expect if you put it all together correctly. No one plans to fail, they fail to plan. Understanding where your plan was compromised is crucial because there will be a next time.
After collecting the final bonus the job was done. Just the thirty minute ride back to the finishing line, and the knowledge that another one was all over bar the shouting. It's a very strange moment in the rally. In this instance I had time to spare but no points to gain, so settle in for a short, slow ride and enjoy what has just happened. Sometimes the run to the finish can be a mad dash, watching the GPS intently as you try to make the projected arrival time run backwards. This is a hard thing to accomplish, I tried it once in Dallas and the fun-factor was high. You are rallying right up to the line. But for most, in most events, there is a quiet ride in and in this one I had nearly ninety minutes in hand. That ninety minutes, I reflected, plus the hour wasted on Hancock Pass and the forty five minutes in the storm were all I needed to complete the full route with all the extras. All things considered, I was satisfied.
As I approached the hotel I could see Justin waiting on the riders. I could see Eric and Cletha Vaillencourt milling around looking official, with clipboards. I could see a parking lot already filling up with grubby looking motorcycles.
I crossed the line, had my mileage recorded and received the biggest hug from Cletha
The How the West Was Won 2014 was now just a memory.
Notes:
Mileage on the rally was 1377 for a total of 1897 points. Good enough for an unexpected, but very welcome, 8th Place.
Total mileage for the event was 2990 ... The FJR and I have become friends :)
Special thanks have to go to Justin for organising the event. The Rally Staff for their unending patience and the time they contribute. Natalie and Jeremy for welcoming me to their home on Thursday night and Jim Downs for his company on the ride out Friday morning. Sorry we couldn't make Pikes Peak Jim, but there will be other rides. Bill Norris for sharing his room on the Friday night, even though I don't think either of us slept much. Mike Cox for the same after the rally, and for being a good friend throughout. Erik Lipps for the jacket and the inspiration, and finally but not least, to my fellow riders ... You are, old friends and new, an awesome bunch!
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