Steamboat Springs

by Chris Porter

As the old saying goes, the only thing wrong with the rat races is the rodents are generally victorious. The rats were ahead by a wide margin almost a year ago when Steve "Speed Wizard" Roe mentioned that the race was getting a bit tedious. I agreed, having grown tired of getting my butt whupped by the vermin myself. It was time for a bit of a respite. A break. It was time for a ride. But where? "Steamboat Springs is having their annual vintage motorcycle races soon," Steve remarks over frosty ones after work one evening. "and I don’t know about you dude-o, but vintage bike races beat the hell out of rat races in my book any day." Amen to that, brother! Count me in! I’ll even be willing to bet that we can find a couple of other poor souls that are backmarkers in the ‘ol rodent runs willing to tag along.

It won’t be a snorefest!!

Fellow rat racer and corner-carver Tom Panwoski threw in almost immediately, his mantra in the weeks before we left being, "Lemme outta here-Ride! Lemme outta here-Ride!" Truer words were never spoken. Colorado veteran and all-around maniac B.C. Nowlin signed up also. "I know some great roads up there, fellas!", B.C. assured us. "It won’t be a snorefest!" I never doubted it for a minute. Steve, B.C., and I get a early afternoon start from Albuquerque on the 12th, heading northward into darkening skies. After a short hop up Interstate 25, we peel off onto N.M. highway 44 on our way up to highway 285, and the casino on the Pojaque Indian reservation to pick up Tom.

We found his smiling face waiting for us in the parking lot, nattily attired in his new two-dollar Wal-Mart special rainsuit. Classy. "It should hold up ok behind a faired bike.", Tom says, although the rest of us aren’t so sure. Time, speed, and distance will tell. So will the coming rain. Up N.M. 285 towards the Colorado border, the rains played tag with us all the way to Alamosa, where a fuel and Snickers bar break was almost mandatory. Tom’s "Bassmasters" rainsuit was holding up pretty well, considering. He was aboard his new Suzuki RF900 for this outing, and with the tall tankbag, hiding from the worst of the windblast came as no problem. "Wizard" Roe was astride his fire-breathing Triumph Daytona 1200, while "Iron Man" B.C. drug out his BMW R1100GS to show us all how it’s done. Yours Truly still relies on the trusty-dusty ‘85 K100RS.

Tom performed the "Magical Disintegrating Rainsuit Act"

Briefly leaving 285, we headed up Colorado highway 17 towards Poncha Springs. Blazing up the "Gunbarrel Highway", as it’s called, Tom entertained us all with a magic trick. Since Gunbarrel is almost 100 miles long, flat, and as straight as a...well, you know.., it begs to be ridden at about *** miles per hour (figure it out for yourself, officer).

Cruising along somewhere slightly above the posted speed limit, Tom performed the "Magical Disintegrating Rainsuit Act" I’m sure the locals hanging around the road that day all saw just a blur of colored objects whiz by, with the odd vapor trail of tattered polyurethane left in it’s wake. Call

Fox Mulder, quick! After the rest of us finally caught up with Steve at the fuel station in Poncha Springs (Note to those who don’t own ZX11’s, Dos Equis Hondas, or F-14 Tomcats for that matter--DON’T take on guys with 1200 Daytonas on lonely stretches of road), we began considering digs for the night.

None of us were particularly hip on camping (considering none of us had camping gear, it was voted down immediately), we decided that the mining town of Leadville looked just right for our merry group. Back on to 285, to 24, and into Leadville for the night. With our gear stowed in the motel, our collective thoughts turned to-what else?-food. Cruising town, we were impressed with the Old West style that has apparently never changed in these small Colorado towns. Several restaurants in town beckoned us with 1800’s styling, and the smells of grilling steaks wafting from inside. Modern ages do have their impact, however; one place advertised "A contemporary blend of nouveau cuisine created with southwest spices that are as pleasing to the eye as they are to the palate". Yeesh, no thank you! C’mon fellas, lets go scare up a steak!

Rain greeted us in the morning, and remained with us all the way up to Steamboat. Tom salvaged the best (read biggest) parts of his rainsuit, while Steve and I wrestled ours on. Iron Man was the only one of us without raingear. "When it comes right down to it," B.C. shrugged when questioned about how soaked his leathers were getting, "skin is waterproof". Grit. Colorado highway 24 took us north to Interstate 70 for a short hop west to highway 131. 131 wanders it’s way beautifully in between the Routt and White River National Forests. It rained just enough to slow us down to admire the beauty of the surrounding countryside without having to concentrate too much on not falling down. 131 ends at highway 14, and 10 minutes later we have arrived!

If Colorado is motorcycling heaven, then cowboy town-turned ski resort Steamboat Springs is vintage motorcycling Mecca! I expected to see some neat machinery when we arrived, but I was totally unprepared for what greeted us when we pulled into town. Trumpets, Nortons, Beezers, and Harleys mixed together with Dukes, MV Agustas, Indians and Beemers. I about fell off the bike when a guy RODE past us on his Vincent Rapide! Hoooeee, heaven, I have arrived! Our group pulled into the Ptarmigan Hotel about mid morning for check-in. Coming out to unload the gear, we discovered a vintage Indian parked next to our modern mounts. Totally supremely cool!

For those not in the know, there is no separate race facility in Steamboat Springs. It’s done the old fashioned way--block off city streets, hay-bale the corners, and go racing. For those so interested, there is vintage motocross, vintage trials, and a Concours de Elegance to go along with the vintage roadracing, all within walking distance on

the hotel. It’s done every September, with a vintage sports car event the week preceeding. B.C. and I could not wait around while the sound of vintage twins roaring down the front straight at full song enticed us from the parking lot--we literally ran down to the gate, threw money at the attendant, and quickly made our way to a nice overview of the start/finish line. From there, we didn’t move for hours. Races in the morning, lunch, rides around Steamboat in the afternoon, hit the shops and booths selling everything imaginable for motorcycles in town that evening.

That was pretty much the plan for the next two days. Steve regrettably had to return to Albuquerque on Sunday to rejoin the rat race, leaving us three to find trouble all by ourselves. B.C. said the road leading up to Columbine was fun, so north out of Steamboat we go. As usual, he was correct. Tom and B.C. stopped when the pavement ended for a quick break. I told them I was going north to find the Wyoming border for a photo op. Not a bad idea I thought, however pretty soon the road turned into a very washboarded logging road, complete with creek crossings, and 90-degree switchbacks over mud. Brilliant idea.

Take your picture here and tell all your buddies that’s Wyoming, ‘cause it is.

After a stretch through a lush green valley, I came across a woman driving a dilapidated pickup truck. "Where is the Wyoming border?" I inquire. She smiled. "Looking for a photo op?", she inquires. I grin sheepishly and nod. "You got another 20 miles before there is any sign that says Wyoming," she informs me, "But that valley behind you is Wyoming. There just isn’t anything that says it is. Take your picture here and tell all your buddies that’s Wyoming, ‘cause it is. The road gets pretty rough from here." Pretty rough from here?? Click.

Up not anywhere near early on Monday, we take our time packing and getting breakfast at the hotel restaurant, not leaving town until almost 11 am. Down highway 40 through Rabbit Ears and Muddy passes (more photo ops!), none of us are in a huge hurry to get back to Albuquerque. We meander down 40 through Berthoud pass on our way to Interstate 70 to go through the Eisenhower tunnel. Colorado is one of the only states I know of that has an entertaining, challenging mountain road disguised as an interstate highway. This stretch of 70 is certainly the most fun I’ve ever had traveling an interstate.

Westward we carve until highway 91 feeds us back into Leadville for lunch. We discussed going through Independence pass, since Tom and I had never done it, however our laid-back pace had crunched us for time. Riding past the turn-off to Independence on highway 24, I vowed that it would happen on next year’s trip. Backtracking the way we came from Leadville, we made Albuquerque by 7 p.m.

Back at the rat races the next day, I had to hit the ground running just to be an also-ran. Ahhh, the daily grind. Steve and I decided that Steamboat was going to be an annual trek for us. Tom and B.C. agreed, and all three of us are going to be there again this year, along with the RATS. Riders Association of Triumph, that is. They will be holding their first U.S. national rally at Steamboat this year, so this motley crew will definitely be there. Will you???

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