October 22, 2003
Bike Ride Trip

Blue skies and a troubled soul.  Life was hanging heavy in my mind and on my shoulders.  The Cub thing just wouldn’t go away, the hacker’s slice off the tee, the bane of my golf game, continued to get worse not better and I had a real bad vibe about the Bronco’s upcoming visit to Minneapolis.  The only malady missing from my life seemed to be the “heartbreak of psoriasis.”   All that self-contained negativity when coupled with every TV weather forecaster from Butch to Larry prognosticating an “incredible weekend to be outside” meant it was time for a bicycle road trip.

    So last Friday morning I pedaled down the hill from our house, onto the Audubon trail and headed my bike south for an end of the season three-day ride along the western edge of my favorite state.

    Why bicycles hit my hot button so hard is a puzzle.  By their very nature bikes are slow, un-comfortable and tiring.  But unlike any other mode of transportation a bicycle allows you to not only see but also smell and hear the world around you.  

     Riding the seemingly all-new Highway 50 towards Delta was the first of many pleasant surprises on this weekend.  Brand new asphalt, wide shoulders and a temperature in the low 70’s made the pedal through the “Stinking Desert National Monument” pass quickly.   Even though it was two in the afternoon I knew breakfast would be available at Starvin’ Arvin’s. 

     Since breakfast has long been at the top of my list for as long as I can remember I made the decision many years ago to eat breakfast twice on bike rides.  This is easier said than done since most eating establishments feel ten or eleven o’clock in the a.m. is the time to move on to things other than pancakes and sausage.  Thankfully the Starvin’ Arvin folks don’t buy into the breakfast curfew theory of restaurant management.

     Friday night’s stay was in Montrose and Saturday morning could not have been more perfect.  After a latte at The Coffee Trader it was off to Ridgeway and Ouray on the ever so gentle uphill of Highway 550 as it parallels the Uncompaghre River.

     The colors of the quakies and scrub oak against the majesty of the San Juan’s defied description.  When I first came to our Centennial State thirty-five years ago I would devour Colorado magazine, a now defunct publication featuring the photographs of David Muench.  As perfect as Muench’s shutter was capturing the San Juan Mountains in the fall his photographs failed to come close to the blazing yellows and vibrant reds on display this past Saturday.

     Just past Ridgeway State Park the shoulder on the highway disappeared only to be replaced by a delightful bike path running along the river until it veered right and dropped the rider into the park on main street Ridgeway right across from the San Juan bakery.  Basking in the noonday sun on the bakery’s deck while devouring sausage and eggs  highlighted by a delightful sourdough toast it was easy to put off for the moment the fact that Red Mountain Pass was just up the road.

     Ten miles later reality was at hand.  While Red Mountain Pass can only be described as a grunt to pedal the canyons and peaks take away your breath almost as much as the altitude.   Once the hill had been climbed and with the summit behind me it was a lazy downhill coast into Silverton where I was joined by my wife who had driven down from Junction.   We stayed at the Imperial Hotel, a funky turn of the century hostelry on Silverton’s main drag.

      Sunday morning dawned crisp and Silverton cool.  You could see your breath heading up Molas.  Near the top one you could see forever and the only other human on the horizon was solitary fisherman lazing away a Sunday morning on Molas Lake.  While most of the color was gone above 9,000 feet once on the Durango side of Coal Bank  fall returned in a blaze of yellow, orange and red.   The twenty-mile coast from Coal Banks’ summit to Hermosa under Colorado blue skies prompted thoughts of George Strait and his country hit “Baby Blue”.   “Baby Blue like the Colorado skies.”  Simply put,there is no azure on this earth that compares to the blue one experiences on a fall day in Colorado high country.

     From Hermosa, trying to make the moment last as long as possible, it was a leisurely pedal into Durango.  Along the Animas a flock of geese lifted off heading south.  Winter is on its way.  Moguls, deep powder, the number two lift at Powderhorn and the back bowls at Vail are just around the corner.  To hell with the Cubs.  Life is good.