Picture this.  New Year’s Day, breakfast burritos, good company, coffee ( won’t describe it as good), sixteen motorcycles, their riders and whatever weather may come.  This is the BIG DOG RIDE.  With the exception of number of riders and the weather this could be any New Year’s morning going back to 1995.  This ride is the brain child of Steve Roe (www.swbike.com), B.C. Nowlin, and Chris Porter.  This means Steve dispenses prizes, which weren’t distributed this year due to the weather, to the small puppies who decide to turn back at Mountainair and makes the rounds the next week to humiliate those who do not turn up to ride.  If you ride one year you ride every year.  It is best to just go ahead and reschedule that liver transplant for the 2nd of January.  This was my third Big Dog Ride and not my last.  What?  Social death.  Not me, mister.

 I have heard tales and read accounts of the pre 1999 rides.  They range in tone and pitch from a Greek epic to a novella about the Donner party.  On any account this is my telling of the Big Dog Ride 2002.  One note here, I have the attention span of a toddler after three double espressos.  Jeez, my eleven year old son and my nine year old daughter have told me to relax and show some patience at times.  Sticks in the mud.  It is taking tremendous self control and three day coffee ban just to sit down and write this.  Please bear with me.  Thank you.

As noted previously, weather plays a large part as to what the turn out is for the ride.  Last year the turn out was almost three times as many riders as this year.  Anyhow, it’s always a memorable ride. 

After coffee and some breakfast most of the riders are there.  Riders are looking at the bikes and various accessories (GPS, electric clothing, after market add-ons, etc.).  Riders begin to zip up, cover up, shut up and mount up. We leave from Hurricane’s parking lot shortly before 10:00 am.  One tangent about Hurricane’s.  The food is great and reasonably priced.  However, I have seen a woman looking a little like Madge soaking another woman’s finger tips in a cup of coffee at the corner table and discussing liquid dishwashing detergent.  Probably the best thing about Hurricane’s is the wait staff.  The best of the wait staff is Constance.  She is the queen of them all.  Ask for her section and you won’t be disappointed.  She is knowledgeable, friendly, and the best waitress perhaps in the western hemisphere.  Tip her well dear diners.

Back to the ride.  The band of intrepid souls leaves the city east on I-40 to the Tijeras exit and south on state road 337.  Traffic is light.  The road was dry for the most part at least for a while.  Then the road turned wet with a little slush in the shade.  The pace was brisk for the conditions.  The group stopped across from the church in Chilili to wait for stragglers and talk about road conditions.  Some of the last stragglers were David Brooks and Chris Porter.  Chris got off his yellow Beemer making his right hand and rubbing his elbow.  He had little feeling from the elbow down.  This apparently makes accelerating or braking the bike, shall we say, difficult.  He decided to turn back towards Albuquerque.  David went along with him after they bantered like an old married couple.  It was really sweet.  I was sorry to see them turn back.  They are both great riding buddies.  Also I knew that when I got back the mood would be less than jovial.  With two less riders the group rode on towards Mountainair.  At the intersection of state road 337 and state road 55 we stopped again regrouping, taking the photo op, some replenishing nicotine into their bloodstreams.  Turning west on 55, the road conditions worsened as did visibility.  With little warning fog descended making visibility about three or four car lengths.  In addition, if riding behind anyone, visibility was reduced from the spray from the bike or car in front.  Great.

I was listening to John Prine who was singing “The Worst Mistake Of Our Lives”, when in one of the sweeping right handers, just after passing a red Triumph, the back end of my K75 stepped out.  Not much.  It was just enough to place respect back with the road (where it should have been in the first place), a slight pucker mark on the seat and a deep exhale which made me Stevie Wonder for a second or two.  It was also at this point that the moisture in the air began accumulating and freezing on my face shield.  Fricking great.  A short time after this I pulled off the road to clear the ice off of my shield.  I waved on a few riders.  Steve Roe stopped to see if I was okay.  I told him that I couldn’t see due to the ice.  His response, “So wipe it off”.  A master of the succinct, that man.  Good thing my face shield was up or the condensation on the inside would have been blue.  “Thanks, Steve.”

Another five minutes and I was in Mountainair at the Ancient Cities Cafe.  Fourteen riders warming themselves with cups of coffee and camaraderie.  After almost an hour, Steve Roe and Steve Goatley called the state road conditions hot line which informed them that highway 380 was snow packed.  They wisely decided not to continue on to Carrizozo, the traditional destination of the Big Dog Ride.

We headed west on US 60 out of Mountainair.  Leading off, B.C. Nowlin was ahead of me on his K12RS.  Mark Holmes was behind me on his dazzling yellow Triumph.  The pace was a lot more brisk due to the really improved road conditions.  I am a firm believer that I can learn to be a better rider on every ride from any other rider, more experienced or less, I can always learn something.  Mark passed me and then B. C.  If I would have blinked I would have missed him.  Thus bringing to an end the shortest motorcycling lesson in history.   Amen.  B.C. and Mark took off like they had been shot from a cannon.  I tried to keep up as best as I could given my cc disadvantage and skill level.  I could keep them in sight but that was about all.  I followed Mark and B.C. right past the turn off for state road 47 to Belen which Steve Goatley and I had discussed, agreeing that we would take the turn off.  Whoops.  I slowed a bit at this thought.  At this point, Tom Panowski on his RT passed me with a grin and a wave.  In my mirror I saw that several bikes were taking 47… Sorry Goat.  After passing a few cars including a light pink Mary Kay Caddie driven by a guy that looked like Mr. Greenjeans on a bender, Mark, B.C. and Tom turned north onto SR304.  We waited a few minutes for the other riders.  Jim Morrison, Jim Salas, Steve Roe arrived.  A gentleman on a BMW, gray hair with a very cool yellow jacket (sorry I didn’t get your name) showed up as well.  Nigel went whipping by the turn off on Dad B.C.’s Triumph.  Are you beginning to sense that the ride was dominated by German and Brit bikes?  Nigel looked like a Popsicle.  There is no wind protection on that bike and let’s face it, Nigel is body fat challenged.  Have a pork chop, honey.  You’ll stay warmer.  In addition to being cold, Nigel needed gas.  We stopped a little later for fuel and then Mark and B.C. proceeded to lead us to Los Lunas via what can only be described as a public transportation version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Yippee!

We made one last stop to regroup, warm up and to let Steve Roe have a cigarette and call his son Jeff in Phoenix to say Happy New Year and rib him a little for not being on the Big Dog Ride.  We got zipped up, buttoned up, etc., the group separated and went on their individual ways toward home.  At the end of these rides I am always a little melancholy, but not for long due to that short attention span.  There should be a parade or something for us New Year’s Day Big Dogs… oh, wait, I guess there was a parade of sorts… a three digit parade along highway 60.  I’ve got to work on my homecoming queen wave for next year.  I hope it’s warmer next year and just how am I going to ride my motorcycle in heels and an evening gown?  I can’t even think about the tiara issue at this point.  I wonder if Kevlar would look funny under chiffon?  Hope to see all you Big Dogs next January 1.  Maybe the small puppies will turn off the Weather Channel and come out from under the porch… Maybe.