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Ernie poses by one of
Nashville’s historically
African American
colleges that he had
wanted to attend.
made them famous:
…And a hungry little boy with a runny nose
Plays in the street as the cold wind blows
In the ghetto
And his hunger burns
So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal
And he learns how to fight
In the ghetto
Then one night in desperation
A young man breaks away
He buys a gun, steals a car…
I always cringe at this point in the song,
ruminating on the vicious cycle Elvis croons
about that was—and still is—so often repeated
across urban American communities. I, like
Elvis, lament the hopelessness of the urban
cycle.
I continued to ponder this when, once again,
I was suddenly jolted back to my primary focus
as the terrain and highway construction abruptly
emerged just before crossing the bridge from
Memphis to Arkansas.
And I was happy to finally be in Arkansas.
Because it is the birthplace of my mother, it felt
great to motorcycle through the state. I had visited
the state several times before, but this was
only my second visit by motorcycle.
The terrain there is mostly farmland and
timber, thus providing little relief from the
road. And our cycling soon became more mundane.
But at least most of the interstate was
well-paved, and traffic flowed fairly well. Yet it
had been a humid, sultry day and, despite the
steady traffic flow, Ernie and I were road weary
and began searching for lodging just before
dusk. We finally found some.
Shortly after awakening the next morning,
we completed a bit of laundry and started out
toward Oklahoma. It was a challenging run
because, after a fairly fluid travel, we discovered
the remainder of I-40 to be rough—not at
all driver-friendly for our motorcycles. Ernie
radioed back to me and asked, “Is your bike
rolling smoothly” Both he and I were experiencing
an uncomfortable ride. We were dodging
poor road grades like running an obstacle
course the whole way. But as for venues, the
roadway at least afforded a beautiful view of
buttes, plateaus, oil derricks and cattle ranches—albeit
ranches with a fetid stench of fresh
dung. Yet after much road-challenging cycling,
we crossed the Texas State line.
Amarillo, named for its yellowish color of
local Spanish stream banks, is the largest city in
the Texas Panhandle and home to plenty more
ranches. And while riding through, we noticed
there was a large Jehovah’s Witness convention
convening. As a result, we were unable to get
seated at a restaurant. By then we were
fatigued, but we continued for over 100 more
miles until we could find some food and
accommodations. But once there, we met a
cycling couple from Colorado who were very
helpful in pointing out interesting sites during
our anticipated visit to their home state.
The next morning, we headed into New
Mexico. Fittingly, the very first town we arrived
at was Texline. Soon after Texline, we could see
the evolution of very mountainous terrain forming
ahead. The roads began to dip and slope
noticeably, and soon we crossed into Colorado.
Colorado is a state with very big mountains,
and we adjusted our driving habits to better traverse
its terrain. Many of its roads swept
through circuitous corridors laden with deep,
winding curves—curves I will write more
about later.
But before getting too settled into our ride in
Colorado, we stopped at a welcome center for
more information. And while there, it began to
rain. Still, we simply donned our rainwear and
decided to continue along our way. As we
drove through the town of Trinidad, the rain
turned into a heavy downpour. Still we continued
on.
But suddenly large hailstones began falling
along with the rain. Finally, we could not continue
riding any longer. The hailstones
appeared as large marble pellets and became
relentless. Almost immediately, they rekindled
memories of my piano teacher crisply rapping
me on the knuckles each time I struck an incorrect
note. The only difference was that the
stones hurled successive—rather than the occasional—raps
on my knuckles. The daunting
challenge became that I could no longer keep
my hands on the motorcycle controls in order
to effectively steer the bike.
It wound up being one of the few times
Ernest and I have ever pulled over in a storm.
Thankfully, though, the storm soon lifted and
Ernie suggested we return to the highway and
continue our ride toward Montrose, Colorado.
It was still a couple hundred miles away, and
we wanted to get in without falling victim to
the perils of nightfall.
But as we rolled along I-25, we could see
yet another storm system setting in. And
though we felt prepared because we still had on
our raingear, not even the prior storm could
have prepared us for what soon followed.
Raindrops fell in incremental sprinkles at first,
then suddenly the clouds ruptured and the road
just disappeared. Now usually, I can peer
around my windshield to see where I’m going.
But my attempts at peering this time were
futile. I began just seeking any way to safely
pull over to the narrow mountainous road
shoulder anywhere I felt I would find refuge.
As I searched, my palms began to perspire
profusely, and I could feel my arms and legs
quivering uncontrollably. Heavy traffic began
building behind me as I feebly attempted to
locate a blind shoulder. The experience was gut
wrenching and ranked high among this
cyclist’s worst nightmares! And unfortunately,
this drama was something even my riding
classes had not prepared me for. Therefore, in
the absence of nearly all visibility, I said a
prayer and inched my way to the narrow shoulder.
Ernie and I breathed a sigh of relief when
we realized that we’d survived the torrential
onslaught.
Soon the rain receded, and we returned to
the highway once again. Realizing that this
would be a low-mileage day, we began searching
for lodging and found accommodations
along Highway 50 in a tourist village called
Salida, located near the Arkansas River.
When we departed Salida the next morning,
we at last headed to Montrose, which led us up
over the Continental Divide: 9,012 feet through
Poncha Pass; 11,312 feet through Monarch
Pass; and, finally, through Black Sage Pass.
The route then led us to the village of Montrose
and to the small town of Gunnison.
60 Wing World