I was bolted awake at about 6 by the air horns of Amtrak's Southwest Chief train, on its 43-hour dash from Chicago to LA. Just like the long-distance motorcycle rider, the railroad confronts the old time/distance problem of getting across a continent, a story that's been around for a long time in various incarnations, from the Santa Fe Trail, to the Pony Express, to the Transcontinental Railroad.

Intending to get on the road by 7, I took in the complimentary "continental breakfast." Hmmm, I'm wondering on which continent does breakfast consist of stale corn flakes and tepid milk? Anyway, I loaded up the bike, got the hell out of Dodge (heh), and headed west, intent on getting to Colorado with dispatch. For a few hours I was following US50, which parallels the Santa Fe railroad's line and the Arkansas River. This route has been a major transportation corridor for a long time. The Santa Fe Trail followed this route and I thought about travel in the early days here. Being on a motorcycle at better than a mile-a-minute on a nice paved highway is luxury by comparison.

After crossing in the Mountain time zone, I stopped at Bent's Old Fort in Colorado, a trading post operated by Bent, St. Vrain and Company on the old Santa Fe Trail. The fort lay at an important spot, as the Arkansas represented the border between the USofA and Mexico prior to the Mexican War. The building is largely a reconstruction and had the usual costumed interpreters. It's all adobe construction and I can see why. Abode is ideally suited to this climate and the interior is quite cool, while outside things are heating up.

By La Junta it's getting hot and, oh, the coke can heat shield I installed the night before seems to have gone AWOL sometime this morning and the right side bag is getting progressively melted on one corner by the hot exhaust. My first aid kit has already succumbed. Oops. This is definitely not the trip to be too fastidious about the gear.

On to Walsenburg after a quick dash across the high plains on Colorado route 10, and lunch at a local cafe. You can fry an egg on that seat, son. Throughout the morning it's been getting higher, getting drier and getting hotter. I'm missing the low altitude power of the bike. Lacks a little of its customary punch when overtaking, but it's not too bad. Sometimes you have to downshift an extra gear. Just east of Walsenburg, I get the first glimpses of mountains again. Time to put on the cornering thinking cap once again, because we'll soon be running out of straight roads.

I rode over North La Veta Pass after Walsenburg, topping out at about 9,000. The road had been "improved," read, made dull for the motorcyclist. After that, US160 descends into the Rio Grande valley. Turn left at Alamosa and proceed south to Antonito, terminus of the Cumbres and Toltec Scenic Railroad, narrow gauge tourist railroad line that climbs over the mountains to the town of Chama, NM.

Climbing up to La Manga Pass, Rt. 17 is beautiful. It has just rained, the road is pleasantly twisty and there's no traffic. A nice cooling through the Motoport jacket is quite a contrast from the baking valley below. Aaah, this is what I came for. Worth riding across two-thirds of the continent, don't you think? Here and there you get glimpses of the narrow gauge line. The road goes over a couple of 10,000-foot passes and then descends in the state of New Mexico. Chama, appears to be an interesting place, in that a lot of the narrow gauge appurtenances still survive, including stock loading pens and whatnot. I'd like to come back when the narrow gauge is operating. That's the story of this trip. Rush, rush, rush and not a lot of time to daisy-pick. From Chama I head west towards Aztec, to meet up with Dan and Deward as agreed, passing through the town of Lumberton. There's not a tree bigger than a bush in sight. Someone must have an active imagination.

Looking at the map, I spot a shortcut on the way to Aztec, state route 575. I turn off, to a dirt road, New Mexico *state* road 575. How bad can it be? Very bad, it turns out. Jeepers, not even township roads back home have such a deplorable condition of maintenance, it's severely rutted and bumpy as all get out. Score one demerit point for the Michelin atlas of North America. At one point the XM receiver comes loose from its mount and goes flying. It survived with a few bruises. Wish I could say the same of the Givi rack brackets. When I get to Aztec I notice a stress fracture developing in one of the brackets Brandon put on. Both sides of the rack are twisted from the Late Unpleasantness, so I guess this put some unusual stresses on it.

Dan and Deward are waiting, patiently, in the shade. It's good to see a familiar face. Aztec is an interesting collection of ruins dating from the 1100s and 1200s. I collect the requisite National Park stamp (state #16) and take a short tour of the ruins, then it's back out to the parking lot to compare farkles and doo-dads on the VFRs. Mine looks like a crusty road-weary veteran next to their bikes.

Dan, Deward and I saddle up and ride a back road for a bit, then pick up the main highway into Durango. It's a beautiful setting for a town and we settle into Dan's place for burgers, beer and conversation.

Day Eight July 12th, 2003 Durango, CO to Littleton, CO 480 miles. [Stops: Molas Pass, Montrose, Black Canyon of the Gunnison NP, Curecanti NRA, Monarch Pass, Buena Vista, CO]

After a great breakfast, Dan helps with repairs, change out a tail-light bulb which burned out sometime on Friday and replace sheared-off bolt at the passenger footpeg assembly. Another casualty of New Mexico route 575. I try to shove the Micron a little to the left to keep it away from the bag. Unfortunately, this means a not so good seal where the "S" pipe meets the collector. The result is a loud pipe, really loud. Ever wonder what a VFR would sound like with a set of Screamin' Eagle pipes?

Heading north out of Durango, US 550, what I call the "Oh My God" highway, between Silverton and Ouray is not to be missed. I rode the gap quite bit, to let the slower traffic get ahead of me for a bit and to enhance the grin factor. Being a Saturday, the flatlanders and their underpowered vehicles are out in force: "if you go any slower folks, you'll have to get out and push." To them it's a white knuckle experience. To me, it's the time of my life.

It's even better than Colorado 17, in short an absolutely stunning road. Tight 270-degree hairpins, huge elevation changes, a series of tight curves in quick succession hugging the cliffside. I'm not unusually an emotional person, but I did shed a few tears of joy on some that road. The scenery is drop-dead gorgeous, the road is amazing, you're in the groove, the bike just floats underneath you and it all comes together, and you're yelling "woo hoo!" at the top of your lungs inside the helmet. Incredible!!!

It flattens out considerably after Ouray, and I decide to stop at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. Black Canyon is a deep gash through the earth. 2,700 feet down, in places, to the river from the canyon rim. Walking up to the edge of some of those overlooks is not for the vertiginous, that's for sure.

US50 follows the Gunnison River for a while, then it climbs up to the Continental Divide at Monarch Pass, the literal high point of the trip, at more than 11,000 feet. With the help of a friendly tourist, I get the obligatory summit sign picture.

From Monarch Pass, it's probably at least a good three hours to Denver. That goes by fairly quickly and I end up at a Greek Greasy Spoon for a bite (OK more than a bite) to eat, somewhere in the south end of Denver. I was so tired by the time I got back to Deward's place that I took off my jacket, laid down in my clothes and fell fast asleep. It had been quite a day, with some of the best motorcycling I have experienced.

Continue on to Part Five