Apex - Bluegrass Beemers

ApexLookingNovember 2011Through The CurveOfficial newsletter of Bluegrass Beemers, Inc. Lexington, KentuckyMOA #146 RA #4-49 http://www.bluegrassbeemers.orgPhotoby Bob Walker

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 32012 Rally UpdateBy Lee ThompsonAs you recall, in the following year‟s Rally.October issue of Please note, we also agreed toApex, Roy Rowlett maintain our culture of "unorganization"and to avoid anyonce again extended his offerto train a new chairman for unnecessary structure.the Annual Rally.Roy has already provided aSince there were no responses,I was asked to get the tasks and deadlines. He has alsodetailed breakout of the Rallyword out and determine the agreed to train and advise theinterest level for continuing the 2012 team.Rally or simply letting it end. With this letter I am requestingeach of you to consider aThis past Saturday afterbreakfast, a small group of personal commitment for a partmembers held a brief meeting in the 2012 Event. Soon we willto discuss the Rally's future. I schedule a meeting with thoseam proud to say that when presentingthis question to several ment. The date and time forwilling to make that commit-members, the overwhelming this meeting will be communicatedvia email.response was absolutely yes,the Rally should indeed continue.All committed to do what out thanking Roy for his manyI cannot end this letter with-they could to make the 2012 years of service as our RallyRally happen.Chairman. His work and dedicationhas made this Event aThe purpose of this letter is toinform everyone that we will great success and a traditionestablish a new format for conductingthe activities and re-passionate to continue.many Bluegrass Beemers aresponsibilities for the Rally. I look forward to seeing youIn an effort to reduce the at the 2012 Rally Volunteerwork load for the Chairman, we meeting.agreed to create a team of RallyVolunteers who will commit to Thanks,specific tasks and divide theresponsibilities. Providing this Lee Thompson , Presidentis a successful format, eachyear there will be a new Teamof Volunteers to handle theApex is the official newsletter of Bluegrass Beemers, Inc.Lexington, Kentucky MOA #146 RA #4-49Paul Elwyn, Editor paul.elwyn@gmail.comDeadline for submissions is the last day of the month.Back issues of Apex can be accessed at http://www.bluegrassbeemers.orgJoin us at Frisch’s on Harrodsburg Rd. on any Saturday, 7-9:00 a.m.

Bark's BytesBy Joseph Bark, MDLike I've said before,I'm no professional(or amateur) instructor,but I've attended a fewcourses as have many of us,and these occasional articleswill just echo some pointsabout riding technique that Ifind useful, or that enhanceriding safety.Read 'em and laugh or tell meI'm nuts, or just paper the outhousewith them. Some areridiculously simple or selfevident,but that only meansthat at some point, when HubertBurton was showing me how toride my Honda Helix, I wasthat naïve, too.Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 4Tingling HandsHave you ever felt your handstingling or vibrating after a rideor part of one? Both Reg Pridmoreand Larry Grodsky said,"Handgrips should really becalled 'hand-DRAPES,'" becauseit's the gripping that givesmost of the buzz. Relax, andhold 'em gently! DRAPE themover the bars. It's a more sensitiveapproach, too!Scan SurroundingsScan your surroundings constantly!!Remember Grodsky'sfavorite summation of his ridingsafety philosophy: TheSpace Bubble Concept: YOUCANNOT HIT WHAT YOUARE NOT NEAR!! This is hispriceless axiom which has keptmany alive to ride again. Inshort, don't get near ANY-THING!!!Avoid Blind SpotsAnd keeping with the theme ofthe "Space Bubble Concept,"remember that one of the mostdangerous times for you on atwo wheeler is during a pass,when you are momentarily inthe blind spot of another vehicle.Tip? Pass as rapidly as safetypermits, escaping the otherguy's blind spot as quickly aspossible. (I once saw the horrendousresult of a broken tandemtwosome of truck tires on I-64 in downtown Louisville. Acar was smashed on the otherside of the median with fatalitiesin the car covered withblood-soaked sheets. You canimagine what this would havedone to a passing motorcycle!).Get around the vehicle anddon't forget the other riders inyour group! They may be followingyour pass and they needa slot in the right lane in frontof the passed vehicle. Go farenough ahead to give themroom to slide in!!Avoid Edge Traps"Rough Rides Have Ridges!"-- Edge traps can grab yoursteering in a New York Minute.Edge traps are linear variationsin a road's surface -- sometimeslittle ruts, sometimes metalmesh bridge surfaces, or sometimesresurfacing marks, orrailroad tracks. These irregularitiescan grab your tires andseriously restrict you steering,sometimes even taking down agood motorcycle and a goodrider.How can you safely navigatethese steering bandits? If it's asingle linear trap, like a railroadtrack, try to approach it as perpendicularlyas possible. Thiseffectively changes a "steeringgrabber" into a little bump inthe road. Hold the bars steady,but don't try to seriously fightthe slight movement of yourfront wheel, because this cancause you to lose your balancevery quickly.Some of the worst edge trapsoccur at construction sites,where, for instance, one lane ofpavement might be as much assix inches higher than the otherlane. This presents a specialproblem, because to tackle suchan enormous difference wouldrequire almost a perpendicularvery slow approach -- not anattack you can easily take, say,on an expressway! Tip here isDONT TRY IT!!! just suck itup, slow down, and stay in yourlane for safety.RainMy final point today is aboutRain. At the track safetycourses, Reg Pridmore oftenstarts his "rainy day" talk byholding his right hand in the airwhile twisting it slowly backand forth. (Pridmore conductshis Class courses rain or shine.)"Gentlemen," he says, in a quiettone, "When you see those veryfirst drops of rain on yourshield, remember your future isin your right hand. Back downyour speed and live to ride anotherday!"Take home message? Rain andhigh speed do not mix. Slowdown in the rain, and if yourriding buddies don't want to goslower, just quietly leave theride!

The demo ridefrom StillwatersCampgroundduring the Beemers inthe Bluegrass Rally wasamazing!I had sat on an S1000RR twoor three times and liked it.First, the bike is smaller than Ithought it was. It‟s narrow. Theseat is hard. First impression isthat the suspension is stiff. Thebike is compact, and the rider isclose to the front end. The littleshield requires a horse jockeyriding stance. I‟m not as smallas I need to be, but I was rightdown next to the shield. I wascomfortable on the S1000RR.I‟ve ridden crotch rockets and aKRS, and I loved the way theS1000RR sat. It‟s not what Icall a crotch rocket position.The pegs are lower than I expected.The bars are low, butthey don‟t seem that low.Going north from the campground,The road sweeps right,then left. Fourth gear workswell through these sweepers.Son of a gun it feels good!When you‟re riding a two-cycleengine, you‟ve got to wind itup, but this S1000RR son of agun is ready any time!That engine will jerk the frontwheel off the ground, and Ididn‟t run it up until after 4,000rpm. But the engine at slowspeed also is quite docile. Butyou better be ready when youopen it up!The engine management hasseveral settings...practice, fullrace, and OLD MEN. I‟m badto wind one up, and in any gearacceleration is instantaneous. Idon‟t think they had it set forfull race. When you get up to9,500 rpm a light comes on toBluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 5Impressions upon riding a BMW S1000RR„This son of a gun is SLICK!‟By Tom Richtell you to shift. Things happenreal quick. It ran wonderful!It was very smooth. Andshifting is amazing! You barelytouch the clutch, finger-tip, andyou‟re in another gear beforeyou know it. Shifting is muchslicker than anything else Ihave ridden.The exhaust is kinda loud, butthat‟s part of it.I would love to have one ofthese for a few months. It‟s aheck of a good bike, the ultimatecafé racer. Low bars. Youhold on tight under acceleration.My knees were tightagainst that tank. When I returnedfrom the ride, JimDavidson from the dealershipasked me if I had insurance topay for removal of the twodents in the tank where I wasgripping it.Cool bike. My wife thought itwas a cool-looking bike.Did I mention that the exhaustwas cool as heck?This son of a gun is SLICK!

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 62012 MOA Rally Site Tour By Lowell RoarkI wanted to go on a fallride and noticed that therewas going to be a tour of nextyear’s national rally site inSedalia, Missouri. So Iplanned to ride out and seewhat the place looks like.I left home in the rain andhoped ai would run out of itsoon. It rained until I got toHenderson, Kenturcky, then offand on to St. Louis.It got windy but dry after that.I didn‟t want to stay in St.Louis, so I rode on to JeffersonCity, 545 miles. I found a Motel6 and a real German restaurantfor the evening, a real treat.On to Sedalia the next morning,65 easy miles, 610 total.Sedalia is a town of about23,000 population, and the rallysite is the Missouri State Fairgroundslocated about one milesouth of the intersection of US50 and US 65 on the right.I had reservations at the BestWestern where all theBMWMOA people were staying.There were already bikesin the parking lot. I met CarolPatzer first thing and severalothers after checking in. Theywere going to tour the siteabout 1pm, and I was made tofeel welcome to join in.

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 8Fly, Drive, Ride In event hosted by Bluegrass BeemerphileAlex Boone offers his stunning 1943 Stearmanbiplane, eclectic mix of cars, and lots of motorcycles!Alex Boone with his1943 Stearman

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 9Fly, Drive, Ride In event hosted by Bluegrass BeemerphileAlex Boone offers his stunning 1943 Stearmanbiplane, eclectic mix of cars, and lots of motorcycles!O kay, so this is a motorcycleclub magazine and I haveused an entire page to displayan airplane.Any motorcyclist who doesnot understand that decisionneeds to rethink motorcycling.I‟m one of those unfortunateswho becomes unstable whenover six feet off the ground.Well, okay, I‟m unstable on theground, too, but that‟s anotherdysfunction.The bottom line is that BluegrassBeemers member AlexBoone hosted a top-notch eventat his home with grass air fieldthat normally would havedrawn about 30 planes had thewind not been gusting to over20 miles per hour.So we were left with oneplane, Alex‟s 1943 Stearman inArmy trainer colors, a stunningexample of the iconic biplanethat was in production from thelate 1930‟s to the late 1940‟s.Although over 9,000 exampleswere built, only approximately800 remain, accordingto Stearman owner GeorgeSmith, and Alex‟s plane appearsto this untrained eye to bea concours example.Sporting a 220 hp 7-cylinderContinental radial engine, theopen seater positions the pilotin the rear seat. A 46-gallonfuel tank resides overhead inthe top wing, a fuel gauge extendingbelow.Alex bought the plane fromhis neighbor, Art Frances, whobought the plane in 1975.Art rebuilt the original engine,but was not satisfied,leading him to replace that unitwith the current engine whichhe had rebuilt in Oklahoma.Art flew to Florida and Californiain the „43 Stearman, butnoted that the a 300 hp enginewould be the preferred setup forcrossing the Rockies, high altitudereducing power output.I talked for a bit with GeorgeSmith, owner of a yellow 300hp Stearman once used as aNavy trainer. He was one of anumber of pilots on hand forthe event that included a cateredBBQ lunch for all attendees,including many BluegrassBeemers members.We enjoyed a great lunch,fascinating cars, a great collectionof motorcycles, and, ofcourse, the „43 Stearman, and afascinating collection of personalities.Alex plans to stage anotherevent in the spring, hopefullywith less wind so the pilots willarrive from the air.I‟m placing a Stearman onmy wish list (which clarifiesanother of my many dysfunctions).—Paul Elwyn

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 10Fly, Drive, Ride In event hosted by Bluegrass BeemerphileAlex Boone offers his stunning 1943 Stearmanbiplane, eclectic mix of cars, and lots of motorcycles!

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 11Fly, Drive, Ride In event hosted by Bluegrass BeemerphileAlex Boone offers his stunning 1943 Stearmanbiplane, eclectic mix of cars, and lots of motorcycles!

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 12Another great Saturday with Bluegrass BeemersOne of the appealingaspects of BluegrassBeemers breakfast atFrisch‟s on Saturdaymornings is that attendees,engaging in theirown right, own interestingmotorcycles, carsand planes, although wehav e not had a planearrive yet at Frisch‟s.Maybe next week?When was the last timeyou could see a „63Volv o?On the motorcycleside, Roberto Munoz andPhillip Baugh appearedon their bikes, both machinesnoteworthy,although separated by49 years. How about a2011 Moto Guzzi Grisoand a 1962 BMW R60?Abov e: Geoff Jones and Roberto Munoz study Ben Prewitt‟s most recent acquisition,a 1963 Volvo 544 B18 Sport. Does Ben now own 12 cars?Below Left: Roberto Munoz with his new Moto Guzzi Griso.Below Right: Tom Rich, Roy Rowlett, Phillip Baugh, and Jim Brandon discussPhillip‟s R60 which Phillips‟ father bought new in 1962.

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 13Another great Saturday with Bluegrass Beemers

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 14Another great Saturday with Bluegrass BeemersAbov e: Cobwebs, Phillip?

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 15Another great Saturday with Bluegrass BeemersRoger Trent entertained us withhis latest blast from the past, a1978 Yamaha XS1100.Roger said, “I understand itwas the first four cylinder fourstroke motorcycle that Yamahaimported into the U.S. It wasalso the most powerful productionmotorcycle that moneycould buy at the time it wasintroduced. It is definitely ablast to ride! I‟ve sincechanged to original stock handlebars,nicer mirrors, grips,and new modern clear lens turn-signals with amber bulbs. Theold beast looks a great dealmore presentable!

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 16Another great Saturday with Bluegrass BeemersPhotos and captions on this page by Bob WalkerRight: Tooearly for someBelow: DebbieBarnes. What agreat waitress!

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 17Today‟sRideBy Tom Weber

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2010 . Page 18Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6By Bob BeardUh-oh.It is 4am-ish, and I think I amin some slight trouble. Out ofthe dead warm calm of thenight my tent just snapped andwalloped like someone swattedit with a queen size mattress.Not only did this scare me witless,and at least one word thatrhymes with witless, it alsoserved to pop me into an unwantedawakefullness fromwhich I would not likely recoverany time soon. And I willnow have to go through the restof my life with a pesky fear ofqueen size mattresses, great!Heart thudding from this most-recent still-of-the-night fright Iscrambled adroitly from theconfines of my rip-stop nyloncocoon, and slipped gracefullyinto the pre-dawn with thegrace of a greased otter ninja.Well, not really. In actuality Ialmost peed on myself as Iflopped and searched in desperationfor the zipper thatwould release me from the confinesof my mummy bag.Somewhere in the night I hadmanaged to squirm it around tothe exact middle of my back.Good thing it is not a grizzlybear attack.Finally gaining the outside ofthe tent, and standing in thehazy moonlit night while savingsome errant patch of grasslandfrom imminent dehydrationit occurs to me to considerthat gust of wind which had justbolstered me so rudely fromdreamland. It is not windy now,odd. In point of fact the night isclose, warm, and slightly humid.The quarter of moon visiblein the sky had a markedcircular rainbow-hued aurasurrounding it. Quiet, as befitsthe western unpopulated edgesof the vast prairie that is middleof the North American continent.But……….something thereitches and scratches around theedges of my senses. Somethingis not…quite….right. There, inthe distance, whispering likethe approach of tomorrow, Ihear a susurrant moaning, and itseems to be approaching. Asmall lick of breeze caressesmy cheek, and drifting in thenight are the olfactory presencesof newly wetted chaparraland long-dry grasses.Gazing upward again I orientmyself with the night sky.Crap! The northwest portion ofsky is absolutely star free;blacker than black even. Obviouslythere is some seriouscloud cover in that quadrant. Inthe east I could see stars glitteringbrightly behind a lightscrim of haze. That moon, withits vaguely multi-colored veil,like it is lying in a puddle of oil-sheened water, and that smellof wetted grasses riding thewind, the sudden gust and nowthe sound of another approachinggust herald the arrival ofweather I do not want. There,the treetops are moving and thesound of the wind is rising! Ohboy, I do believe it is going torain some.Diving back into the tent Ipull out the poles and fly for theroof of my shelter and scrambleback out to get it fixed in placebefore the arrival of what canonly be a storm front. A newgust shudders my structureagain and tries its windy best totear the fly from my grasp as Ihustle to fasten it in place. Thefirst wind-driven fat dropssmack around me as I completethe task and dive back into mytent. And not a bare momenttoo soon either.The scatter of water dropletsare soon joined by a ravaginghorde of brethren and had I notplaced the roof in place I wouldsurely have been one wet,soggy and unhappy puppy. Asit is I am snug, pretty much dry,and staked down. Boots, andjacket and helmet are in herewith me. The bike, which hasthe gathered dust and bugs ofthe last thousand miles adheringto it, can use a good rinsing.It seems there is nothing to dobut get some more sleep while Iwait it out. Not one to fight thefates I shut my eyes and try tomake patterns of the sound ofrain drumming the stretchednylon.6:30 a.m. I open my eyes. It isquiet again, although breezy.The rain has stopped, for now.A glance outside shows a greyand gusty world that has grownat least 20 degrees cooler. Iestimate it to be about 50 degrees.It is fairly chilly by myHawaii standards, but not toobad. The sky is completely obscurednorth of my position.Taking a quick hike to the apexof the slight rise I am campedon I can see the grey andblurred horizon to the north thatsignals falling rain. Southwestof me there are some lighterareas and, looky there, a breakin the clouds with a 50 cent sizepiece of blue sky. Guess whichdirection I am headed? Oh,clever you.Packing quickly, before thatgrey morass to the north decidesto vacation in Mexico, Islither the 7 miles back to thepaved road I ventured in fromlast night. At least there is nodust cloud following me thistime, but throttle applicationsare applied with a subtlety Ireserve for slick conditions.Notching it up a gear also helpsto keep that back tire in place.I take a moment once I hitmacadam to call command central.(Mary) She confirms whatI have already deduced: Thatlow pressure over the Rockiesis huge and having an adolescentgrowing spurt. It nowstretches from Canada to northernNew Mexico. Fort Collinsand Denver are gathering snowand Denver is expected to getsnow accumulation of 2-3” bymid afternoon. WTF? It is stillmid May, right?While I am on the phone withmy loved one I take the opportunityto get updates on theweather across the country.Anywhere north of me is heavyrain stretching into frostbiteweather should one continue onand on. Straight west is severalinches of snow. I can headstraight south where it would be

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 19Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Beardwarmer, but everything fromTennessee to the Texas Panhandleis getting torrential rain andflooding. Interstate 10 is supposedlybeing washed away inplaces, although the officialreport is that this cannot beconfirmed because of high waters.How funny is that? Shootingsomewhat southwest ispretty much my single option.I‟ll take it.Mary‟s parting shot of adviceis that some of the passes southof Denver may not get snowand could be passable. There isno way to tell as the televisedand on-line weather gods arepretty well split on this decision.Well, it is not the veryfirst time I have elected myselfto be a weather-check dummy.Saying a warm aloha to mydearest I pull out mappage andaim somewhat souther than Ihad originally intended. Thethought last night had been totry and scoot across near theDenver area, or maybe even abit north of there if the weathercooperated. The weather didnot cooperate.Now I am looking at shootingsouth to Kansas hwy 50 andmaking Coolidge, KS my exitpoint from the flatland state.Wending in that direction hasme going from spray to mist todroplets and back again. I seemto be ahead of the full-on rain(big smile here) for the timebeing, although the wind isgetting more and gustier. Arethose gusts directly behind mein tailwind mode? Really, youhave to ask? I could just slapyou.Gassing up in Coolidge I treatme to a warm cuppa and get outof the wind for a bit. I was goingto ask the lady behind thecounter if she had any idea ofwhat the weather in my directionof travel might be, but sheseems surly and gives the appearanceof someone whoskipped high school to makethe try-outs for federal penitentiary.Also dampening my inquisitivemode is the fact that Ihave to wait behind a harriedmother and her demon-childoffspring in order to pay. Thiskid would not be helped by aleash and collar; he is more of achoke-chain candidate. He remindsme of a four year oldwho lives down the street fromMary and me. The kid can beheard yelling at other neighborhoodkids about 18 hours eachday. I have not been directlyintroduced to the little angel,but I gather from hearing hisparents speak to him that hisname is Aiden…Aiden…Aiden.Aiden…Aiden…Aiden hasnever, ever within my experienceresponded even remotelyto anything his parents haveever said to him. EVER! I amthinking that they may as wellshorten his name to just Aidenand save some breath.Back on the road and I musthave passed into Colorado becauseI cross Colorado stateroad 89. The road I am currentlyon, Hwy 50, is supposedlya scenic roadway. For thelife of me I cannot quite figureout at least half of that descriptivemoniker. It is definitely aroadway though, and it is goingin the direction I want.Breakfast is in La Junta Colorado.It is officially cold andwindy. The wind is blastingfrom the west-northwest andfor the last 25 miles I have beenscrubbing flat planes on theright sides of my tires.La Junta is one of those townsthat seemingly grew up at thepoint where someone‟s horsedied and stranded them. Notwanting to be abandoned in thewilderness all on their lonesomethe hapless traveler undoubtedlyate his horse whileawaiting some other cluelessfool to come along. When cluelessdid appear the originalstranded guy probably connedhim into stopping to rest andspend the night. Once asleep hekilled the other guy‟s horse, ateit too, and in the morning therewere now two of themstranded. And so on, and soforth, until VOILA! a town isborn amid a pile of horse bones.La Junta, by the way, for thoseof you who opted for French,German, Latin or Italian foryour pre-college courses means“The Junction”, or “The Joining.”It could also be construedto mean “ that hot momma I amstanding right next to,” but wewill give them the benefit of thedoubt here and suppose that theburgeoning town was nameddue to its proximity to the confluenceof the aforementionedHwy 50 and Hwy 360.As a crossroads town LaJunta is rife with gas stationslining the roads into town, andbeing just on the north easternedge of Comanche NationalGrasslands means that each ofthese gas station marts is justchock full of the ticky-tackycrap they tend to sell near NationalParks. You want a T-shirtwith a stylized representation ofa Hopi Kachina (because it isComanche National Grasslands,remember?), well, you got it.Navajo (?) blankets (made inthe Philippines), they got thosetoo. Hummel-like NativeAmerican figurines (made inJapan) are in stock too. Howcan you go wrong? How abouta clock on a dinner plate with apainting of Elvis and SittingBull? Got one of those? (Themanager is checking for one inthe back).Finding a small and homeylooking café I dismount, employthe center stand to keepthe bike from falling over on acuriously slanted street, and

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 20Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Beardwend my way to the café entrancepicking my way throughpiles of horse skeletons.Stepping into the warm, noisyand packed confines of the caféI am assaulted by the olfactoryequivalent of Valhalla. Jesusjumped-in-a-creekI am hungry.My ravenous nature may havesomething to do with my recentsteady diet of nuts, grubs andberries. The café floor is narrowwood strips that were lastvarnished about the time Lincolnwas inaugurated.The counter stools are coveredin varying degrees andpatterns of duct tape and oldglitter-red vinyl. The tablesappear to have come fromwhatever yard sale the proprietorpasses along his way towork each day. If there is a pairof matching chairs around anyof those tables I will eat yourmomma‟s oldest shoes, but thatmight just be my grumblingtummy talking for me, so trynot to take that so literally.There are exactly two waitressesattending to about 25people. And in the Yin andYang nature of the universe oneof them is morose, sullen andplodding, and the other is ahuman whippet, and calls everyone“ Honey,” and “Sweetie”and such. The plodding onegives an occasional grunt.Lucky me though, the whippetis manning the counter and thatis where my backside is parking.Her arrival happens in aflurry of napkins, forks, knives,platter, cup, condiments, andmenu. She is yapping 90 milesa second and I have just enoughtime to nod in the affirmativefor some coffee (maybe somethingslightly less volatile andcaffeine-imbued than what sheis drinking) before she is offand yammering about Today‟sSpecials and what the localslike and the best place to get atune up for a ‟47 Packard andsome other stuff that I mayhave missed. I just wrap myhands about the warm mug andtap the menu with a finger as Itry to indicate that I might actuallylook at this handwrittenlisting of foody items if she isagreeable. She smiles and revealsa row of teeth that woulddo Sea Biscuit proud, pats myhand and tells me she has someextra biscuitsjustoutoftheovensweetieand shewillgetmeacouplenochargehoneyand goaheadandtakemytimeyakkityyakkity-yakbefore she sailsaway………. You think Marywould be disappointed with meif I took a wife in La Junta?A full hour later, fortified bya fantastic breakfast of huevosrancheros, tortillas, biscuits,and coffee I stagger out of thecafé and try to mount the bikeand get rolling before a foodcoma sets in. Not only am Ithoroughly warm now, I ampositively radiating heat fromthe high calorie intake I havejust pummeled myself with.Ahh, such sweet bliss.Back on the open road and Iangle southwest on Hwy 360.This, too, is listed as a scenicroad, being part of the old SantaFe Trail. It may be scenic indeedand in truth, but I am notlooking. I am absolutely certainthat if I were to remove myattention from the task of pilotingtwo wheels through thiswindstorm I will wind up tumbling253 yards off the lee sideof the highway during a gust, sofor me it is not scenic. And thiswind is not of a tropical nature.Ambient temps are about 40degrees, it is gusting between35-40 mph, and I am on twowheels traveling about 50 mph.What a fantastic idea this is! Iam having a great time. Not asmuch fun as that semi parkedon his side, but still…………Wind chill, according to thehandy little chart I carry, shouldbe about 26 degrees, but that isgeared for a person who isstanding still in a 35-40 mphwind. You can rest assured Iwas wearing everything I hadAND my raingear in an effortto keep my warm cocoon intact.I stopped in Trinidad, Coloradoto re-warm, refuel, re-check myI am absolutely certain that if I wereto remove my attention from the taskof piloting two wheels through thiswindstorm I will wind up tumbling253 yards off the lee side of the highwayduring a gust, so for me it is notscenic. And this wind is not of atropical nature. Ambient temps areabout 40 degrees, it is gusting between35-40 mph, and I am on twowheels traveling about 50 mph. Whata fantastic idea this is! I am having agreat time.maps, re-think the situation,etc…Trinidad, Colorado is funfor me on a couple of counts:(1) Mary and I lived in a townin northern California for manyyears called Trinidad, and I waseven the acting Postmasterthere for about a year, and (2)Trinidad, Colorado is the sexchangecapital of the U.S. Howabout that? I bet that doessomething to alter the singles

Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Beardscene in this burg. While I gasup I am covertly checking fortransitional types. I do not spyanyone sporting about townwith a bandaged groin somaybe it is a slow week in thechangeroo business.Trinidad is at the very southeast portion of Colorado and aman working in the gas stationtells me that he is hearing reportsthat the developing stormmay not have reached thepasses this far south…..yet. Heis helpful in the extreme andpulls out a more detailed mapthan my own showing me aroad that will take me westward.About 25 miles along theroad meanders up into somefoothills of about 5-7,000 feetbefore it starts to seriouslyclimb into the highest pass inthis portion of the state. I amworried about making that pass,but then getting stuck on thenext one that comes along. Hepoints out that if the first pass isclear (Cuchara Pass, elevation9,941 feet) there is a large valleyand close to 100 miles betweenit and the next pass. Additionallythere are some roadswithin that valley that leadstraight south should the secondset of passes be in non-passmode. Well, looks like a plan.It is not a plan though; it onlylooked like a plan. Headingwestish on Hwy 12 I only get toabout 6,000 feet before the mistturns into slush followed a mileor so later by snow. The hillsrising ahead of me are obscuredby falling white flakes. Nothanks, not a fan. One carefulfeet-down U turn gets me goingback down the hill to Trinidad.At least I did not get all tied upon some kind of “ what-if” scenarioregarding which path totake. I am NOT pushing intosnow. Wasn‟t I just in a recordsettingheat wave two daysago?Back in Trinidad I break myown unwritten rule and putabout 48 miles on interstate 25down to Raton, New Mexico.From there I can turn westagain and try for a pass on thenorth side of Eagle Nest. This isa pretty high pass, and it is actuallynot far from the ski areaof Taos, New Mexico, but everyoneis telling me that it isclear down that way.The Interstate is a continuedexercise in wind-driven hell.Those 48 miles takes me overan hour and a half, and this isprobably due to the fact that thefastest vehicles on the highwayare zipping along at some 30-35miles an hour. There was onetrucker who blazed by like itwas business as normal, eventhough the tail end of his truckwas wagging like a happy pupas he sped along. Fortunately Ihad spied in him in my rearviewand pulled wa-a-a-y overto let him pass by as he wasusing pretty much all of bothlanes to drive. I then passedhim about 8 miles furtheralong. He was bent into a V-shape with the cab of his truckpointing back the way he hadjust come from, and he wasparked precisely at the end ofsome long and crazy skidmarks. There was a friendlyblack-and-white there with himso I did not stop to say somethingencouraging like “ nyahnyah-nyah”.I repeated some warming upand planning in Raton, NM. Itwas like 1 or 2pm and I have toadmit I was getting pretty tiredof this day. I had been battlingcold and gusty winds all dayand any warmth generated by

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2010 . Page 22Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Beardthat high calorie breakfast in LaJunta was long since gone. Achill was settling in and neededto have something positive happenfor a mental boost if nothingelse. Heading southwest onScenic 64 out of Raton I therewas actually a slight lesseningof the winds as I once againapproached the foothills of theRockies. Ahead of me thingslooked maybe possible, maybenot. It was grey as a gatheringof dust bunnies, and I could seeareas of some kind of precipitationhere and there in the hills,but there also seemed to belarge gaps between those areas.There was only one sure way toknow.Hwy 64 really is scenic.Beautiful open rolling countrysidestretched all about me, andas I slowly climbed I enjoyedoccasional views back to theeast as the prairie lands droppedaway. Things were lookinggood as I passed through Cimarron,NM…….right up untilthey did not look good anymore.I rounded a curve and gota sudden slap in the face by wetslush blowing on the wind. Notthree miles later rounded anothercurve and slowed to astop by the side of the road.The tarmac from this point onclimbed fairly straight up intothe white covered hills. Snowagain. Screw this! Once againit is down into the lower altitudesand back into some relativewarmth.There‟s Snowin Them Thar HillsThe only good thing about havingturned around is that eachtime I head down hill I have thewind mostly at my back. I driveslowly and conservatively becauseI am cold, the road iscold with wet areas, my tiresare cold, I am fatigued,etc….This day is coming to anend quickly. I am now on somecountry road that loops fromCimarron back to interstate 25where I am going to head south.This low pressure is apparentlymoving and building faster thananyone expected and I mustfind a way around it. South ismy only option.Let me take a moment here toonce again regale British MotorcycleGear (BMG) on theirgloves. My hands, despite theweather I have been battlingthrough, are fairly comfy.These gloves are pliant, comfy,have very good tactile feel andare warm. The $90 spent waswell worth it, and consideringhow much use these gloves willget over the years (Hawaii, remember?)I imagine the onlyreason I will replace them is if Icannot find them when nextthey are needed.Two hours later I am LasVegas, NM. I did not knowthere was a Las Vegas, NM buta quick glance around assuredme that very few citizens aregoing to confuse it with its

Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Beardmore famous Nevada namesake.Gassing up I am approachedby no less than two separatepeople trying variations of“ Hey-why-don‟t-you-give-mesome-money”.I am just stickingthe gas nozzle into my gastank when the first one comesup. This is a woman who tellsme a sad tale of how she istraveling to Texas for a jobinterview where she is a guaranteedto be hired on as a nursebut she ran out of money causeshe sent all her money to hermom who is sick but if I couldgas up her car on my credit cardshe would be really gratefulcause her card is tapped out andmaybe I could get her somethingto eat from inside too andas soon as she gets that job inTexas she will send me $100for helping her out.I ask her what kind of nurseshe is. She tells me she is thekind who wears the white uniformsand helps doctors. Uhhuh.I do tell her that I canshare some food with her butthat is as far as our relationshipis going to go. She offers thatmaybe my ancestors had sexwith animals. C‟mon, is thatnice?The second person steps infront of my bike as I am aboutto start the motor and pull awayand I take the time to removegloves, helmet and earplugs tohear his tale of woe. Remember,I have been traveling alonefor awhile so any conversationis sort of a novelty, plus I amreally not that thrilled aboutgetting back on the road.This character wants somestraight up cash in hand causehe lost his job, he lost hishouse, he lost his car, and hehas been staying in a motel butnow he owes them two daysrent and they are going to kickhim out if he does not pay for atleast another week in advance.These British Motorcycle Gear gloves are pliant,comfy, hav e very good tactile feel and are warm.Wow! So he wants me to fronthim something like $500. Whathappened to panhandling forspare change? I point out tohim that I am traveling in lessthan-ideal-conditionson a motorcycle,and have been sleepingin a tent. He does not seemto realize the irony of what I amtelling him, in fact he prettymuch ignores everything I sayand just asks if I am going togive him the f***ing money ornot. Subtlety is not his forte. Itell him that I am certainlyNOT going to give him “ thef***ing money”, and as hestorms off he too has nothingnice to say about my relatives.How is it that everyone hereknows so much of my family‟shistory?But crazy guy has put the ideaof a motel in my head, and Ifind myself pulling into thenext little overnight place I seewhich lies, most conveniently,just a quarter mile down theroad. It is warmer here in LasVegas than it was up in thehills, but the wind is still blowing,and it is still only about 40degrees. I am done with it.Stepping into the motel‟sOffice I am confronted by adense pall of cigarette odor. Noactual smoke at the moment,but this room has seen its shareof butts and the ambiance isingrained. It is one of thoseplaces managed by someonewho lives on-premises and isset up more as a living roomthan an office. The sole nod tobusiness function, a serviceable,albeit unattractive, Formica-coveredcounter commandsone corner of a roomthat is dominated by a La-Z-Boy, a huge flat screen TV andabout 18 tons of little ceramicfigurines.I would not guess that thetinkle of the bell above thedoorway would have attractedanyone‟s attention over thesound of General Hospital, buta wizened dwarf of a womanissues from a back doorwayimmediately asking if I wouldlike a room for the night. I tellher I think I would, but firstinquire if they have nonsmokingrooms and what therates are. She guarantees methat ALL her rooms are nonsmokingbecause she runs aclean place. I bite my tongue,mentally chastise myself for thecomment I was about to make,and inquire about rates. Shetells me that rooms are $90 pernight, but that as one of theconstruction crew I get a 40%discount. I bite my tongue onceagain before the stupid voiceinside my head can get to theoutside and ruin this lovelytransaction. (If I have to talk tothis woman for very muchlonger I am going to chew myown tongue clean off. ) I canonly suppose that well-usedmotorcycle riding gear carriesthe appearance of whateverouter clothing the constructiontypes wear in these parts. Godknows what she makes of thehelmet. Maybe non-helmetedconstruction workers only get a30% discount.First order of business uponentering my room, as you canwell imagine, is a hot shower. Ihave checked in early enoughto make sure that there are noissues with me running out ofhot water. Anyone coming inafter me is probably going toget the cold soak, but I amchilled close to danger pointsand I am getting all the warmthI can. Exiting from the showersome indeterminate time later Iam wrinkly, pink and warm. Ifigure out how to use the TV(despite the instructionsmounted on the wall) and find aweather channel that is not inSpanish. It may be English, butthe volume control does notwork too well, and I can onlyhear what the weather droidsare saying if I stand right nextto the set. From anything furtherthan 5 feet away it soundslike chance of rain and scatteredmarmosets ahead of acheese front. Oh wait! CloseCaption. How friendly is that?Next, shave. And maybe a bitof a refresher from Mr. JohnnyWalker who, once again, hasstowed away in my bag. Howdoes he always find me? By thetime I am done shaving I havealready refilled my glass.Standing in front of the mirror,on your second glass of scotch,on a stomach that has been liv-

Go West Young Bike(Or, How Paul’s Bike Finds a New Home In Hawaii) Part 6 By Bob Bearding on lizards and berries, withno plans and a full evening ofnothing to do is a sort of diminisheddanger one should beaware of. I am warm enough tobe comfortable, and livelyenough to be slightly bored. Iwill take a walk around townsometime, but right now I willavoid the cold and occupy mytime with scotch and shaving.Looking at my newly shavedcountenance I take an exploratorysip of Mr. Walker and anequally exploratory swipe backfrom my temple with the razor.Hmmmm…..now how aboutthe other side? Not bad. Maybean inverse Mohawk? Youknow, one naked stripe smackdown the middle of my head.Sip of scotch, maybe anotherbit off right there………..andso it goes. The front of the headis easy; you can see it in themirror. But once that portion ofmy noggin is deprived of itshirsute qualities there is still theback of the head to shave. I donot want to be mistaken for thereverend of a new world religionso I WILL find a way toshave back there too. The easyway would be to go out andunscrew a mirror from theBMW and bring it in, butN00000000000……….I is toosmart for that. So it is about 2more ounces of scotch before Iam satisfied with the results,and now I need to go out andfind something to eat before Istart swinging from the chandelier.(That is a sort of metaphor;this is not the sort of place withentry ways and chandeliers andby now I am becoming too intoxicatedto hang on to a chandelieranyway.)After wandering aimlessly foran hour and rejecting every caféand restaurant I come upon Ifinally find a place that makesdeli sandwiches right there infront of you and has a big oldpot of barley beef soup that youcan spoon from. Heaven on aKaiser roll.Post dinner wandering revealsan obviously small town thathas somehow found itself in thepath of an interstate off ramp.Just off the main drag are widestreets lined with giant cottonwoods.Yards are Midwesthuge and there are no carsparked on the streets as eachdriveway can easily accommodatefour vehicles in 2x2 arrangement.The yards and vehiclesreveal the identities of theoccupants easily. There is ahouse with small children, thatone obviously has teenagersdiscovering the joys of hip-hop.Over there is someone who isseriously into four wheelingmadness, and this appears to bethe property of a retired couplewho enjoys gardening.It is quiet, peaceful, and becomingcolder by the minute. Iam reminded of the cold when Iremove my beanie for a momentto scratch a tickle abovemy right ear. Wow! I had somewhatforgotten that I now sporta shaved head. There is a lot ofair moving around up there.As I meander back to my first,and what will ultimately be myonly, paid-for room of the entiretrip I wonder if that Mr.Walker guy is still hangingaround?

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 25To Pike‟s Peak or….B a t t e r y R o wPart 2 By John RiceThis is what Rt.550 looked like in 1984 through the windshield of a green R90/6)We last left our intrepid superannuatedadventurers on MainStreet in Silverton Colorado.From Silverton, webegan the descent intoDurango, following thedownhill slope climbed by therailroad.I had last been on this road 27years ago when I spent a summerin Albequerque NM andwandered around the west onthe old R90/6 (aka The GreenBike).Route 550 twists and turnsdown the mountain until it beginsto level out near Durangowhere all those years agoBrenda and I were part of abovine traffic jam.Now that two lane blacktophas four lanes and the wideplains full of roaming cattlehave morphed into subdivisions,probably named after thetribes and ranches that oncewere here.. Downtown Durango,the “ old city” hasn‟tchanged a great deal however.We parked our bikes on themain drag that looked quitefamiliar and went into the sameoutfitter store where I‟d purchasedmy first and only ThermaRestcamping mattress morethan a quarter century before.They still sold camping gear,but not the kind of modern layeringthat Jay was looking for,so we tried next door, in a newmall composed of severaldowntown buildings gutted andconnected, much like VictorianSquare in Lexington. In anoutfitter there we found whatwe needed and had a long talkwith the salesman, a formerHarley rider converted to theKTM brand by the mountainroads in Colorado.Properly attired now for thecold, we wandered up the streetin search of sustenance andfound an old drugstore nowreborn as a restaurant. Theyard out back, once used for theparking of delivery drays, nowwas a brick patio full of diners,a mix of tourists like us andlocal residents.We hadn‟t planned our itineraryvery well (read “ not at all”)so left Durango without reallyknowing where we wereheaded. A quick stoplight confabyielded “Pagosa Springs”and that was enough directionfor our needs.For me we were now on a“nostalgia route:, though withoutany such prior intention. In1984 Brenda and I had comethis way on a long weekendaway from my work in NewMexico and I was curious nowto see what had changed. Theanswer, we were to discover,was Not Much and Everything.Pagosa Springs is a smalltown on the western slope ofthe continental divide in theSan Juan mountains, on thebanks of the San Juan River,about 35 miles north of theNew Mexico border. Westopped at a roadside café forrest and pastry, two travelingessentials, and faced the decisionthat had been hanging overour heads for severaldays....whether to camp.Jay and I spent much of ourearly trips, when we were inour 30's, 40's and even into our50's camping most of our nightson the road. Such pastoral pastimeshad become less and lessfrequent as our old bones beganto protest more and more uponarising from the cold groundand finally several years agowe‟d given up any pretense,opting for the dubious luxuriesof cheap old-style “Mom &Pop” motels.. Since this triphad been on our minds fromthose earlier days, we had decidedwe‟d go back to basicsand try camping again. Each ofus had brought a large duffle ofcamping gear, some of our old

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 26To Pike‟s Peak or...Battery RowJay in front of "The Old Timers Cafe" while an oldtimer takes his picture.of the office that we had used inthose pre-cell-phone days tocall our son who was spendingthat summer with his grandparents.Jay and I selected ourcampsite by the pond and beganthe once familiar ritual of settingup camp.We made a quick trip intotown for dinner, on a patio bythe river,(sharing part of ourfish with the feral cats who hadset up shop there) then back tocamp to watch the sun set behindthe mountain, sipping alibation and reminiscing overcamping trips past. Why didn‟twe do this more often?Then to bed and the answer tothat question became moreclear. Both of us were usingour old Thermarests (mine, theone I had purchased here inColorado all those years ago)and both of those devices haddecided that this was a trip toofar. An hour after retiring toour respective tents, the padshad deflated and our old bodieswere firmly on the cold, coldground.About 2 AM, I exited the tentfor the Old Man‟s Ritual, andwas greeted with the reason thatcamping is worth, at least someof the time, the discomfort.The sky had cleared completelyand the million or so stars, impossiblybright in the blackness,were reflected perfectly in thesurface of the pond in front ofme. Such beauty would bedescribed as “ surreal” if only itweren't the exact opposite....theabsolutely real splendor of theuniverse in which we who tryto name such things are such avery small part.The next morning we brokecamp in the first rays of dawnand began the second phase ofthe trip that we would later call“Battery Row”. Jay‟s Mysticwouldn‟t start, producing onlythat frustrating rapid clickingthat tells one the starter isn‟tgoing anywhere without someadditional juice. We pushedthe bike to the top of the driveand got it going, thinking that itjust needed some riding time torecharge.Headed south toward Taos,the road winds through he foothillsof the San Juans until itrises up onto a ridge lookingover the surrounding hills andvalleys. We had this one all toourselves in the early morningand the long sweeping curveswere perfect for some legstretching,battery-charging,somewhat-above-the-limit riding.The usual technique ofaccelerating out of a turn issupposed to be followed byleveling off the speed until thenext one, but this road seemedstuff and some new things toreplace what had worn out,mildewed or simply disappearedover the years. We‟dbeen carrying this load from thebeginning, but each night hadopted, just one more time, forthe comforts of the roadsideroom with AC and a shower..Now here in Pagosa Springs,we had to face the dilemma....eitherwe were campingon this journey, or not. Inthe old days, we just lookeduntil we found a campground,or on occasion,simply pulled upinto the woods and found aclearing. In these modern times,we pulled out our cell phonesand looked up “ campgrounds”on the Google map. Therewere several listed in closeproximity to our café, so the diewas cast and off we went.We found the first one, on theroad that paralleled the SanJuan River and pulled in downthe long gravel drive. As thecamp came into view, I had thefeeling I‟d been here before andsuddenly realized that this wasthe same spot where Brendaand I had camped in PagosaSprings in July of 84. Thelayout was still the same, downto the phone booth on the sideThe rough life of camping

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 27To Pike‟s Peak or...Battery Rowaccumulating bend by bend.We kept up the pattern until aquick glance at the speedometerneedle in the far right regionsof its travel made us both realizethat discretion really is thebetter part of valor and thattelling a New Mexico trooperthat “ the road made us do it”probably wasn‟t going to work.All too soon that hooliganhighway descended into thevalley, became straight andlevel and eventually brought usto Taos.I‟d made several trips up herein that wonderful summer longpast and was looking forward tothe return to the little town withthe vaguely magical aura.Much as my waistline has expandedgreatly in the ensuingyears, so had Taos. It was nowa city, not a town, and the tinysquare of little local shops anda restaurant is now just a part ofwhat is called “ the old town”,surrounded by new buildingstrying to look old, and lots oftraffic.The restaurant where we hadeaten back in 84 is long gone,now another shop selling NewMexico souvenirs made inChina.. We ate lunch at DocMartin‟s Restaurant attached toone of the newer hotels whichtries to blend in to the stuccoambience of the old town.. Thefood was good, a Mexicanbreakfast burrito, but still somethingseemed less than authentic.I guess it is true what ThomasWolfe said many years agothat “ You can‟t go homeagain”, even to a place thatwasn‟t home, but just a pleasantmemory.From Taos, we headed outon the loop called the“ Enchanted Circle” that ringsthe mountains above the city.At the top of this circle, at BobcatPass,(about 8,500 ft) is thetown of Red River where I hadvisited several times andcamped long ago.I had fondly remembered thelittle place, high in the mountains,because it seemed thenlike a refuge. There were onlya few buildings, old woodenstructures from the late 1800'sand early 1900's mining boom,with lots of vacant spaces inwhich the locals had parked oldvehicles of every sort, ATV‟s(the three-wheeled kind that(Brenda and the R90 in Taos , July 1984. She looksev en better now...the bike and Taos don't)What Taos looks like nowwere common then), ancientpickup trucks, tractors etc.,either for sale or in some stateof repair or abandonment. Thepeople on the one street throughtown, bordered in part bywooden sidewalks like in theold Western movies, seemed tobe stuck in a time warp formthe late 60's...some in the1860's and some in the1960's....with what could havebeen Gold Rush miners shoulderto shoulder with Haight-Ashbury hippies. It was a fineplace to be and I remembered itwell.That town is gone, just as ifsome alien tractor-beam hadpicked it up for transport toTralfamador as an exhibit, andreplaced it instead with a skiresort. The wooden walks aregone, now wide concrete sidewalksborder a wide pavedstreet lined with mostly newestablishments dedicated to cityfolk coming to the mountains inSUV‟s to strap themselves tosticks and fling their bodiesdown manicured slopes ofsnow. It‟s all very nice, but it‟snot Red River to me.We found a room at one ofthe resorts, where the offseasonprice was still nearlydouble our usual frugal downmarketmotel experience. Aswe walked back from dinner weencountered a mule deer contentedlymunching grass infront of our room. Apparentlyall of the animals haven‟t madethe switch to modernization.The next morning, the Mysticagain refused to start, requiringa couple of pushes to thetop of the hill to get it going. Inthe town of Questa, we foundan auto parts store and purchasedyet another battery. (Ifyou're keeping score, that'sthree so far). In the parking lotwe changed out the battery and,for good measure, replaced thevoltage regulator. The “old”battery, purchased just a fewdays before, seemed lighter andthere was a discoloration on thebike‟s swingarm as if a mist ofacid had been discharged.Since this saga had begun witha charging problem, we thoughtperhaps the charging systemwas “ cooking” the batteriesand that the new regulatorwould fix the situation. Newlyelectrified, the bike started rightup and we took off with theproblem solved..With our usual lack of planningand direction, we headednorth again from Questa on522, crossing again into Coloradoat Costilla Creek , thenskirted east of Blanca Peak(elevation 14,345 ft) and overNorth La Veta Pass (9,413 feet)

Bluegrass Beemers Apex . November 2011 . Page 28To Pike‟s Peak or...Battery RowJGR in the middle of, and in all of, Cuchara, Colorado.From here, 160 wound its waythrough low hills and out intothe vast plains that would becomethe flat Kansas prairie.Most the times the thermometeron the bike indicated 100 degreeswith the wind blowing upfrom the South sometimesshoving us into the opposinglane. No harm done by theseexcursions though, since wedidn‟t see but perhaps one carper hour. Gas was running lowand none of the "towns" on themap existed as physical entities,at least not apparent fromthe road, until we found theOutpost in Kim Colorado.The Outpost is the entiretown of Kim, and has one gaspump of the old "crank the handleto set the mechanical numbersback to zero" type.. Thelady and her husband who runthe place moved there years agofrom Dallas because they didn‟twant to raise their children inthat urban environment, tradinga huge metropolis for onebuilding and a lot of emptyspace on all sides. She saidtheir children however havemoved off now as adults andlive in big cities. I guess there'sonly so much "empty" a youngperson can stand.Our resolve ran low by thetime we reached Springfield,Co. late in the day and wecalled it done .Springfield, likemany we've seen out here, appearsto be the shell of a formertown once prosperous but nowjust hanging on. There is awide main street perhaps ½mile long but nearly all of thebuildings are boarded up andclosed. There are four motelshere but only one, the StarliteInn, that met even our extremelyminimal standards. Wewalked the length of the town,selecting, the only open restaurant,,theappropriately namedTrails End Café, , for dinner..(The food was good, but thebonus was finding that theowner brews his own dark beerand we were fortunate enoughto get the last two glasses.)on Rt 160. That brought us toonear to The Dreaded Interstate,so we zagged back onto Rt. 12to go over Cucharas Pass.Rt. 12 eventually dumped usout unceremoniously onto Rt160 again at Trinidad, the siteof an earthquake the week before.Though it made nationalnews, we'd not noticed it at thetime and the town seemed, tobe unaffected.Trinidad is a good sized cityfor this part of the west, with amain street that has retained itsold buildings giving it a 1950'skind of vibe . We passedthrough once, looking for arestaurant that would meet ournon-fast-food local eatery standardsand nearly missed the onewe chose.The sign out front indicated itwas a clothing store of the old“haberdashery” type, but as wepassed by we noticed a tableout front and what appeared tobe a sign with menu items.“Danielson Dry Goods” No clothing or dry goods on offer, but truly marvelous pie!

To Pike‟s Peak or…Battery RowThe town of Kim, ColoradoFriday, just before daylight wewalked down to the only placein Springfield open for breakfast,The Longhorn Steakhousewhere we arrived before itsbusiness hours, to find one manin a late 70's Chevy pickuptruck waiting . . A small compactfellow with a mustache, ashe spoke he had that habit oflooking over my left shouldermost of the time making onlyoccasional eye contact. It remindedme of GarrisonKieller‟s description that in theMidwest an extrovert is someonewho looks at your shoesinstead of his own while he istalking.In the cab of the truck sat anelderly Weimaraner dog,named Elli and she kept hereyes focused on her owneracross the parking lot. He toldus that Elli was a rescue whoseprevious owner had died andthat he had picked up when shewas about eight.. Elli had beenwith him for several years nowand had undergone a variety ofmedical procedures includingorthopaedic surgery, diabetesand various other medical problems.As he spoke it was clearthat he was dedicated to thedog. that must have taken mostif not all of his resources. Bothof them seemed to feel that thedeal was worth it.Soon his truck was joined byanother and another and a smallcrowd developed, old men incowboy hats, jeans, and workshirts standing around talkingin what obviously was an everymorning routine, not unlike ourSaturday mornings at Frisch's.The Steakhouse finallyopened and we all filed in withJay & I being careful to lookwhere everyone sat first so wewouldn‟t take anyone‟s“ assigned table”. The lone caféworker hustled about silentlyand efficiently seldom havingto ask anyone for their order.The talk at the tables weremainly about farming, theweather and the health of thosenot present.We walked back to the StarliteInn, loaded up our gear andheld our breath while Jaypushed the starter button. Theengine came to life, just like anormal day and off we wentinto the rising sun.TO BE CONTINUED