Alaska: Day 20 (24 June 09)
Very strange dream last night. I dreamed that Danny and I were riding on flying horses. These weren't Pegasus-like horses with wings -- just regular ponies, except they could fly. Call 'em organic motorcycles.
In the dream, there was a third rider with us. Not sure who he was, but it seemed like he was a guide of sorts, leading on his own flying stallion, showing us the best roads. Touring the scenic countryside of (presumably) Idaho, we passed fields and fields of cattle until we came upon one particular pasture in which there lay the largest bull I have ever seen. I made some comment about the size of the beast and how I hoped he would stay in his corral, to which our guide said, "No worries, that bull's too damn big to fly. Just watch this." With a cowboy hoot and a holler, he plummeted from the sky, diving at the enormous bull. Waving his hat (guess we didn't have helmets), war-whooping, he proceeded to chase the bull around the field, doing touch-and-go's behind the beast, enraging it as it sought to escape the antagonizing horse and rider.
This went on for some time until, suddenly, the bull proved our guide wrong, launching itself into the air. It didn't fly high and it didn't stay up long, but it flew none-the-less. Turning, the bull hooked the horse and rider and sent them tumbling. I remember quite vividly in the dream: the pinwheeling rider, arms and legs all akimbo, falling from the sky, then cartwheeling in a bloody, bone-shattering tumble across the ground. It was clear from the fall, the way he hit the ground, and the heap in which his body finally came to rest, that the rider was dead.
That's all I remember of the dream, but it was enough to set me on edge the next morning. As I passed signs in Idaho, Utah, and Colorado saying "Open Range," I kept a keen eye out for that bull.
Never saw the bull, but I was damn near taken out by an 18-wheeler that lost a hub cap (I think that's what it was) as it approached me from the opposite direction in a big 55 mph sweeper. The hub cap, if that's what it was, looked an old style derby or bowler hat -- only it was made of chrome. I was doing about 70 in the curve when it came rolling at me on edge (what would be the brim of the hat). I could just imagine it hitting some bump in the road and going airborne to stike me across the throat, decapitating me at worst, slicing through my jugular at best. I adjusted my lean angle to avoid it, but then it did hit a bump, not bouncing into the air, but changing its trajectory. It was now on a bee-line for my front wheel. I leaned harder, diving to the inside of the curve as the truck screamed past -- the driver probably unaware he'd launched a deadly missile at me -- and the hub cap missed my front wheel by about a foot. Whew!
461 miles today. All backroads. Some of the most scenic roads I know, passing through Moab, UT, then east to Ridgeway and Ouray, CO, where I thought about stopping in at the nekkid hot springs (aka Orvis Hot Springs) -- some of you might remember the place from Pierre's ride report (you can find it on my website, of course). Two years ago, Hwy 550 out from Ouray to Silverton was in horrible shape and my buddy Greg vowed not to ride it again because it was too scary, but today I found it newly paved, smooth as glass, grippy as Gorilla Tape, and absolutely glorious. The GS and I howled through 10, 15, and 25 mph switchbacks with no shoulders, no guardrails, and thousand foot penalties (blow a curve here and you're quite simply D.E.A.D.). I really needed my CBR, but the GS did me proud. It's an extremely capable bike and I had a great ride.
Gassing up in Silverton, some guy in a pickup struck up a conversation, asking where I'd been. I told him I'd just come down from Alaska. "Oh? I did that on a Guzzi several years ago." He struck out his chest and boasted that he'd gone all the way to the Arctic Circle. "You get that far?" he asked. I smiled and told him the GS and I had gone to Deadhorse, as far as you can go without dropping into the Arctic Ocean, some 250 miles north of the Arctic Circle. "Oh? On that big bike? You rode all the way up the Haul Road?" "That's right," I told him. "How many times did you drop it?" he asked. I refrained from smacking him upside the head and simply told him that the GS had never been dropped, not on the Haul Road or anywhere else. Then it was time to make tracks.
I stopped in Durango for the night. The entire town was booked up. After trying four different hotels and thinking I would have to press on, someone said they thought the Ramada still had a couple rooms. The GS and I flew down the street and checked, finally acquiring the very last room at the Ramada for $130 a night. It was a nice room, but I much prefered my $40 room at the Amber Inn in Bliss.
No photos. Never touched the cameras in fact. I was having too much fine riding the twisties.
In the dream, there was a third rider with us. Not sure who he was, but it seemed like he was a guide of sorts, leading on his own flying stallion, showing us the best roads. Touring the scenic countryside of (presumably) Idaho, we passed fields and fields of cattle until we came upon one particular pasture in which there lay the largest bull I have ever seen. I made some comment about the size of the beast and how I hoped he would stay in his corral, to which our guide said, "No worries, that bull's too damn big to fly. Just watch this." With a cowboy hoot and a holler, he plummeted from the sky, diving at the enormous bull. Waving his hat (guess we didn't have helmets), war-whooping, he proceeded to chase the bull around the field, doing touch-and-go's behind the beast, enraging it as it sought to escape the antagonizing horse and rider.
This went on for some time until, suddenly, the bull proved our guide wrong, launching itself into the air. It didn't fly high and it didn't stay up long, but it flew none-the-less. Turning, the bull hooked the horse and rider and sent them tumbling. I remember quite vividly in the dream: the pinwheeling rider, arms and legs all akimbo, falling from the sky, then cartwheeling in a bloody, bone-shattering tumble across the ground. It was clear from the fall, the way he hit the ground, and the heap in which his body finally came to rest, that the rider was dead.
That's all I remember of the dream, but it was enough to set me on edge the next morning. As I passed signs in Idaho, Utah, and Colorado saying "Open Range," I kept a keen eye out for that bull.
Never saw the bull, but I was damn near taken out by an 18-wheeler that lost a hub cap (I think that's what it was) as it approached me from the opposite direction in a big 55 mph sweeper. The hub cap, if that's what it was, looked an old style derby or bowler hat -- only it was made of chrome. I was doing about 70 in the curve when it came rolling at me on edge (what would be the brim of the hat). I could just imagine it hitting some bump in the road and going airborne to stike me across the throat, decapitating me at worst, slicing through my jugular at best. I adjusted my lean angle to avoid it, but then it did hit a bump, not bouncing into the air, but changing its trajectory. It was now on a bee-line for my front wheel. I leaned harder, diving to the inside of the curve as the truck screamed past -- the driver probably unaware he'd launched a deadly missile at me -- and the hub cap missed my front wheel by about a foot. Whew!
461 miles today. All backroads. Some of the most scenic roads I know, passing through Moab, UT, then east to Ridgeway and Ouray, CO, where I thought about stopping in at the nekkid hot springs (aka Orvis Hot Springs) -- some of you might remember the place from Pierre's ride report (you can find it on my website, of course). Two years ago, Hwy 550 out from Ouray to Silverton was in horrible shape and my buddy Greg vowed not to ride it again because it was too scary, but today I found it newly paved, smooth as glass, grippy as Gorilla Tape, and absolutely glorious. The GS and I howled through 10, 15, and 25 mph switchbacks with no shoulders, no guardrails, and thousand foot penalties (blow a curve here and you're quite simply D.E.A.D.). I really needed my CBR, but the GS did me proud. It's an extremely capable bike and I had a great ride.
Gassing up in Silverton, some guy in a pickup struck up a conversation, asking where I'd been. I told him I'd just come down from Alaska. "Oh? I did that on a Guzzi several years ago." He struck out his chest and boasted that he'd gone all the way to the Arctic Circle. "You get that far?" he asked. I smiled and told him the GS and I had gone to Deadhorse, as far as you can go without dropping into the Arctic Ocean, some 250 miles north of the Arctic Circle. "Oh? On that big bike? You rode all the way up the Haul Road?" "That's right," I told him. "How many times did you drop it?" he asked. I refrained from smacking him upside the head and simply told him that the GS had never been dropped, not on the Haul Road or anywhere else. Then it was time to make tracks.
I stopped in Durango for the night. The entire town was booked up. After trying four different hotels and thinking I would have to press on, someone said they thought the Ramada still had a couple rooms. The GS and I flew down the street and checked, finally acquiring the very last room at the Ramada for $130 a night. It was a nice room, but I much prefered my $40 room at the Amber Inn in Bliss.
No photos. Never touched the cameras in fact. I was having too much fine riding the twisties.
Labels: Alaska, motorcycles
posted by Brian A. Hopkins at 10:32 PM
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