A Promise Kept
by Steve Goatley
sgoat@prodigy.net

Tom and I had been friends and riding buddies since the early 70's. We had ridden everything from Harley-Davidson Superglides, to RD-350's, and most stops in-between. Though our friendship had remained intact, circumstance, that mother of all potholes, had kept the two of us from doing what we wanted,.. scratch that.., NEEDED to do for many years....ROAD TRIP ! Sure, there had been a few dirt bike adventures, and even an SRX-600 that kept residence in both of our garages for a time, but with the advent of Tom's purchase of a stunning new RT-1100 in the Spring of 1996, the glove had been thrown down. *#%$ or get off the pot Steve!

The following Valentine's Day 1997 I took delivery of my Candy Red 1200 Suzuki Bandit. Though not as refined as her German cousin, she was long -legged and willing. With a touch of touring seat, and a dash of soft luggage, all that was needed was hotel reservations and patience (we made reservations 4 months in advance, better safe than sorry! ).

Destination, Steamboat Springs, Colorado for the vintage/modern roadracing and concours events that have taken place every September for several years.

After many years away from the motorcycle industry that kept my spirit and bank account fueled during the 70's and first part of the 80's, I had returned for a visit between engineering assignment's to work at a local dealership for the summer of 1997. Summertime at a motorcycle dealership is frantic to say the least. The upside of that, besides better than average commision checks, is the way time clicks off. When I turned the page on the collecter quality Triumph calendar that adorned the wall of my work space and it read SEPTEMBER, I knew time was on my side, and soon I would be both headed North, and unemployed (couldn't convince powers that be that this trip was that important to me). Oh well, ...it's all about priorities .

Just ahead of the bulk of the morning rush-hour, I aimed the bike North and in no time the Sandia Mountains were fading away in the rear view mirror. Making my way through Santa Fe and beyond, I came upon the rendezvous point and there sat Tom and the Beemer. He had evidently just arrived and like me was ready to begin the adventure we had planned for months.....make that years.

Signs of fall in northern New Mexico were beginning to appear in the mountains as we made our way into Chama, N.M. for a nature stop. The weather was absolutely perfect. About 60-65 deg. and dry. The aforementioned weather channel had warned of impending wet weather, and my brand new rain suit still in its plastic tote-bag was close at hand in the tankbag, But what storm clouds we saw were 20-30 miles away and so far, no threat.

"At first I thought we must have stumbled into the Colorado militia's monthly luncheon"

Lunch time found us in Pagosa Springs, Colorado, so we decided to pit for burgers and fuel. We happened in to a decent little restaurant and sat down. As I looked around I noticed that virtually all of the patrons were wearing camouflage. At first I thought we must have stumbled into the Colorado militia's monthly luncheon, but found out later that this was opening day for deer season. Fuel tanks and bellies full , we headed west towards Durango. It had been ten years since I was last there, and was amazed at how much it had grown. We actually encountered gridlock while trying to make our way out of town!

Leaving Durango we began to rapidly gain altitude and a sense of foreboding about the storm clouds which had now had us fully encircled. You could smell the rain, and I was beginning to think my rainsuit was about to be christened in short order. We pushed onward and wound our way up to the top of Coal Bank Hill Pass (10640 ft.) and over to Molas Divide (10910 ft.) before the rapid and damp decent into Silverton ,Colorado. It seems the rainstorm was just ahead as the highway became wet. The thought of overtaking and passing the local logging trucks (those guys cook !), going downhill, on wet roads, became something both Tom and I decided to leave to the young and daring, adjectives that hasn't described us for some time.

"By now this "rain thing" had become a game Tom and I were going to play and win".

Silverton, unlike Durango, was just as I had remembered it. A rustic, classic old Colorado mining town and stop for the narrow-gauge railroad. I would have liked to spend a little more time there, but the skies overhead were beginning to look like a scene from "Wizard of Oz". We decided to strike out again and try to stay ahead of the storm. Once again we scaled the front side of yet another major mountain pass (Red Mountain Pass 11,018 ft), rain still at our back-side but closing. Just as we had a short time before, we made our way down the backside(and wet side) of Red Mountain into Ouray. No time to sight-see here either. Quite frankly, even if we would have had the time to hang out, I don't think we could have found a place to park! Don't know what was going' on, but the town was standing room only. Maybe overflow from a bluegrass festival in neighboring Telluride. Whatever. I do know that with the appearance of raindrops on my faceshield and windscreen, I came as close to breakin' out the old scuba suit as I would for the rest of the trip! By now this "rain thing" had become a game Tom and I were going to play and win. I swear at one point while leaving Ouray, I could see the rain pouring down behind us in my rear view mirrors! With a twist of the throttles, our 1 liter plus mounts put the ominous storm clouds at a safe distance behind us........ I'm having fun!

With the precipitation miles behind us, we rode into Montrose, Colorado. After topping up the tanks yet again, and going on the advice of the station attendant, we made our way to one of Montrose’s many motor lodges. Besides a GREAT steakhouse located adjacent the motel, we were also amazed by the sight we saw in the parking lot. Seems the Gold Wing Riders of Colorado were having their end of summer bash/rally/feed in Montrose this year. There wasn’t a car to be seen in the parking lot, just rows of chrome, trailers, running lights, blue vests, and a great bunch of folks all celebrating the last rites of summer.

Friday morning, we found a thick layer of dew on the bike covers. After a continental breakfast with our new found two wheeled brethren, we departed on what I might have to consider the best day in the saddle I have ever spent. After a short trip up RT. 580 to Delta, Colorado, we peeled of east and northbound towards Paonia, Colorado, site of a huge BMW rally during summer of "97". The roads were decent up to and into Paonia, but from there to Glenwood Springs they were phenomenal. Temperature, road conditions, lack of traffic (except an occasional pick-up full of bow-hunters) and euro-like scenery all added to an amazing experience. There was crystal blue Paonia Resivor on our right running for miles, while all around us were "Sound Of Music" look alike mountains, and by now the Beemer and the Suzy were old traveling buddies. They had been on several weekend romps together, but like there owners, this was the bonding. Even the exhaust note that resonated from this unlikely duo was harmonious. Hard to believe that a horizontal opposed twin, and an inline four could sound so "simpatico"!

As lunch time approached, so did the town of Carbondale, Co. The continental breakfast had long since worn off, so thoughts of burgers for us, and high-test for the scooters became the plan. Tom and I both knew that the next pit stop would be made at our destination, Steamboat Springs. Anticipation ran high!

As we made our way into and through Glenwood Springs, Co., something was becoming ever-apparent. We hadn’t seen another motorcycle all day except when we left the Wing-nuts back in Montrose, but now we were beginning to see individuals, and small groups of bikes with ever increasing regularity. Not Harleys or land-barges, but FZ’s. GSXR’s, ZX’s, CBR’s, RS’s and the like. This was sport-bike country and we were pumped! Most had luggage strapped on and their headlights aimed in the same direction as we were. Winding our way up State Rd. 131, we watched as the mileage markers told us we were getting close. The only close call I had on the whole trip came as we were overtaking a classic R69S BMW with Alaska plates whose owner decided to make a left into a rural general store for ding-dongs and an RC cola just as I made my move to go around him. Thank God for modern braking systems. He never saw it coming. Deep breath. Just ahead we could see the outskirts of a city of some size with ski lifts, and mega-buck log homes. Steamboat was waiting with open arms.

A beautiful resort town nestled in the Rockies, packed with an incredible variety of motorcycles, bars and restaurants...

After finding our way to The Iron Horse Inn, our home for the next couple of days, we stowed our luggage, and rinsed the road grime from ourselves and the scooters. We were headed downtown to check out the goings on and to hopefully find our friends from New Mexico. As we eyeballed the rows of bikes up and down main street, we saw a parking opportunity in the middle of town with our names on it. Backing into our respective slots, I thought to myself, "this is what it’s all about". A beautiful resort town nestled in the Rockies, packed with an incredible variety of motorcycles, bars and restaurants for as far as you can see, upcoming race days, and a great friend to share it with. At the advise of a friend who skis Steamboat during the colder months, we sought out The Steamboat Barbecue, a local pub with great food, bowls of peanuts{shells on the floor thank you), and a great beer list. After a couple frosty mugs of a particularly pleasing local brew and now ankle deep in goober hulls, we decided to continue our sight-seeing trip through town. No sooner had I wondered aloud to Tom as to the whereabouts of friends Chris Porter and Steve Roe, did I get a flash of "Daytona Yellow" out the corner of my eye. It was Chris on his freshly painted K-1000 BMW . With a piercing whistle and flailing of arms, we got his attention and he pulled to the side . He said that Steve, Jennifer, Gabrielle, and Tom Panowski (of disappearing rainsuit fame in Chris’s Steamboat article of last year) were back at their hotel with a few more of the "hole in the wall gang" . We would all later return to downtown for merry-making which lasted late into the evening.

Saturday morning was sunny and beautiful, and even at 8:00 A.M., I could here in the distance the sound of some die-hards already turning early practice laps. In short order we were marching through the turnstiles, first stop, t-shirt stand. Shirts for wife, kids, sister, friends, not to mention ourselves, and soon we were both toting cumbrous plastic bags which would be at our side the rest of the day. Why didn’t we wait till after the races were over and then buy the shirts you ask?

Experience dictates that by races end, the only thing left is a pink moto-cross shirt in small. We didn’t dare show up back home empty-handed. Making our way through the pits, I all but exhausted my film supply in the first hour or so. I’m the caliber of photographer who usually gets about 2-3 good pictures from a roll of 24, and there was just so much to see. I don’t think we sat down for more than 10 minutes at a time all day. The track layout was such that you could wander about and get to just about any point along the circuit. The course was made up of both tight city-like situations, to wide open sweepers with elevation changes nearly as radical as Laguna Seca. I don’t know if this is the same circuit each year, but I couldn’t imagine why they would want to change it. Just for the record, the vintage automobiles are at Steamboat the week before, and if possible I would love to see both next year.

Probably have to quit my current job to get that much time off so it probably won’t happen. By the end of the day, mad money spent and faces sunburned, we headed back to our digs for dinner and relaxation. Even as I lay in bed that night just before dropping off, I could still hear the sounds of 916 Ducati’s and TZ-250’s banging away inside my head.

O-dark thirty Sunday morning and Butch and Sundance were ready to hit the trail. A decision the night before was made to get up, have breakfast, catch a bit of morning practice at the track, and get back in the saddle and back out on the road. This accomplished, we made the climb up St. Rd. 40 departing Steamboat to our next destination, Red River, New Mexico. A teeth-chattering 50 miles later, we peeled off south towards Dillon, CO. A quick burst west on I-70 and sharp left down St. Rd. 91 took us through old west mining town Leadville, Co., another great attraction worth spending some time at. Several years previous I had been stranded in Leadville during a blizzard after returning from a ski trip. Had a great time at the old Leadville saloon, drinking Tequila with other marooned travelers and wondering if this would be another "Donner Party" scenario.

Once again, rain clouds began to appear on all horizons. We decided to press on and before we knew it, we were headed due east from Alamosa, Co., towards historic Ft. Garland, Co. where we turned south. Soon, we came upon a sign that read "Welcome To New Mexico, Land Of Enchantment".

Now our license plates were once again the same color and origin as the majority of vehicles we encountered. This day had been run at an Iron-Butt Rally pace, and we were ready to kick back and relax. As we entered Red River, I quickly spied the Alpine Lodge, a motorcycle friendly and all-around great place to rest one’s road weary bones. Being Sunday night, there was no problem getting the room of our choice anywhere in town. I took Tom to Texas Red’s Steakhouse that evening for a great piece of meat with all the trimmings. I have eaten there many times in the past and the quality is always A#1.

Departing Red River Monday morning after a traditional New Mexican breakfast of chili, eggs, and beans(these vacation’s are hard on the waistline), we both knew this was our last day on the road. Never the less anticipation levels ran high. Ahead of us were some of this state’s most scenic highways. Motoring past Eagle’s Nest and namesake lake, we made our way to Taos via Angel Fire and several miles of snake-like roads . Having only skirted the southern edge of the tourist/artist mecca which is Taos, N.M., we cut back south on St. Rd. 3. This particular stretch of highway rivals Colorado’s best. Sipapu ski area was only a blur on our right as we let the bikes take one last aggressive charge at a challenging and nearly deserted(it was Monday morning) piece of road that eventually petered out in the old village of Mora, N.M.

A fuel stop in Las Vegas, N.M., including a "thanks for everything" handshake with Tom, and a chuckle inside my helmet at the "Dick’s Liquors" sign downtown, and we were homeward bound on Interstate 25. Before long the Santa Fe/Los Alamos turnoff was upon us. With a quick salute to my traveling companion of the past few days, he peeled off for home, I was once again riding solo as I had a few short days before, only this time, the outline of the Sandia mountain range loomed ahead, and not in my rear-view mirrors.

The next hour would be spent re-playing the events of our journey, and wondering why for the first time in a week my backside began to ache a bit, and my throttle hand began to tingle. The answer was simple. Reality was just a few miles down the road, and this trip was at a close. I must say that without exception, the people of New Mexico and Colorado whom we encountered, were nothing less than exceptional concerning their hospitality and acceptance of touring motorcyclists.

The neat thing about giving your word, is it’s probably the only thing a person can both give and keep. This trip was I part about promises made and kept. Plans and scheduling are already in place for next Fall’s return match, and by the way, my rainsuit is still in it’s tote-bag buried at the bottom of my tank bag, still having never repelled a single drop of rain…………Maybe next year.

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