The Elephant Ride
THE ELEPHANT RIDE
AN ICY, DICEY RAGE IN THE ROCKIES
BRENDA BUTTNER
OUNDED INNOCENT ENOUGH. "JUST A group of motorcyclists getting together for a weekend trip, described one of the organizers of the 7th annual Elephant Ride. lt sure beats watching television or going to the mall" Always game for a Sunday-afternoon saunter, I signed up
Perhaps I should have been a tad troubled when the event kicked off with a guy called "Rat" and his friend "Lurch" half-skating, half-sliding in a screaming ice race outside a bar known as Stinkey's Corral. And maybe just slightly scared when an ol' pal of Evel Knievel almost bagged out of the trek at the last minute, mumbling something about "certifiably insane bikers.” But I didn’t really get nervous until seconds into the ride when my motorcycle licked a strip of snow, promptly spit me down, and I realized that more than 24 miles of snow-covered, ice-crusted road loomed ahead.
Dusting off snow pants and struggling to get my bike shiny-side up again, I quickly discovered I was not alone-crashing comes with the territory on the world’s highest, coldest motorcycle ride. "Hey,” yelled GrifT McClure, coaxing his ’77 BMW 750 through a snow bank minutes before the ride got underway. “It’s a good day; I only fell down three times so far this morning.” "Have fun!” shouted another adventurer. "It goes from bad to worse!”
“Worse" is exactly what a gung-ho-group of cabin-fevercrazed Coloradans hope for each winter, abandoning health and home to hook in electric vests, rouse hibernating engines, and slip-slide over one of the steepest roads in the Rockies. The lower the temperature, the higher the enthusiasm. “Two years ago was perfect,” a long-time veteran of the ride explained eagerly. “Absolutely miserable."
It s not really surprising that this crazy concept has its beginnings in barroom braggadocio. Avid tour-season motorcyclist Greg Frazier recalls that he and a group of BMW buddies were telling lies and minding their own business at a favorite hang-out when two guys wearing Harley T-shirts started making fun of the Beemers parked outside. “Our Harleys could outrun those BMWs anytime,” they taunted. Never one to miss an excuse for an excursion-even in the dead of winter-Frazier challenged the Harley guys to a ride the next day over a challenging mountain pass. Not one Harley showed, but the BMW gang tackled the snowshrouded trail anyway, and the Elephant Ride was bom.
As does the better-known, week-long Elephant Rally in Europe, this trek gets its name from an icy expedition that also experienced a fair share of crashes. Attempting to cross the Alps to conquer Rome centuries ago, the fierce Carthaginian general Hannibal lost more than half of his war elephants to the elements. Organizers of today’s Elephant Ride proudly proclaim that the odds are not nearly so good in modem times: On one slippery curve, nearly every twowheeler topples at least once.
No wonder. The road over Guanella Pass, some 60 miles southwest of Denver, was chosen with care: a snarl of switchbacks that climbs to 11,669 feet then tumbles like a tangle of angry snakes to the valley floor. In midFebruary, chances are always good that every inch will be slick with a coating of black ice and fresh powder. “Novices should spend the day shopping at their favorite mall,” Frazier boasts. “Expect to encounter blowing snow, avalanche areas and sheer drop-offs.”
That prospect was enough to attract more than 50 riders to head for the hills one frosty morning last February. Even though the mercury stubbornly hung at 10 below, spunky dirtbikes, their tires bristling with sharp studs like irritated porcupines, had already been hard at work since sunrise, making mush of Stinkey’s ice pond. A couple of spirited Triumphs were ready for the ride, too, greeting the chilly morning with proper aplomb and polished chrome. A Bultaco edged its way into the crowd, and, of course, Beemers were out in force, everything from a ’65 R50/2 with sidecar to a brand-new, racy-red R100GS.
“It’s cabin fever. We all just have a really bad case of cabin fever,” explains Dave Tharp, a computer specialist who considers the journey over Guanella a highlight of his winter months. “Yeah,” adds experienced Elephant Rider Vem Bundy. “Living in Colorado, you just ‘jones’ for your motorcycle during the snow season and will do anything to get on your bike.”
The clear, cold dawn was not so warmly welcomed by some. A sleepy-eyed group cradled several cranky classic bikes near a campfire in the hope of cajoling the engines to turn over. Their owners were a little slow to start as well after a night spent in sleeping bags beside a frozen pond. (A favorite ritual of the Ride is a camp-out in temperatures that often dip to 20 below.)
1-2-3, push: the proven method for getting a BMW sidecar rig up a snowy incline.
Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to ask “Crash” Cunningham for advice on conquering the mountain.
“Take a car,” he muttered.
But few four-wheel drivers wanted anything to do with Guanella Pass this particular Sunday. “It’s the coldest, slipperiest Elephant Ride we’ve seen yet,” one rider announced with an eager smile. As if to underline that assessment, a row of official signs lined up like sentries at the side of the road: Pavement Ends, Avalanche Area, Snow Slide, Falling Rocks, Icy Conditions.
My lightweight TW200 (graciously loaned by Yamaha’s Denver dealership, Cycles West) seemed well-equipped for such terrain: fat, knobby tires, low seat and electric start. But I learned the hard way that it lacked one key feature: another set of wheels. After a few, uh, down-to-earth experiences, it became clear the best approach to climbing a steep, ice-packed dirt road on a motorcycle is to plant both feet on the ground, then gently nudge the throttle, and slowly, steadily proceed in first gear.
gear.
A Norton Commando chugged past in this popular four-point configuration. “My main objective,” its owner, airline pilot Mark Achten, said the night before over beers at Stinkey’s, “is to avoid damaging my bike. The only way to do that is to stay off the front brake.”
“Don’t even think about touching it,” repeated another Elephant Ride veteran emphatically.
Don’t touch the front brake. That became a mantra of sorts as I slid through a couple of turns on the trip up past the tree line. With the rear end washing out so often, I couldn’t afford to have the other tire go. Don’t touch the front brake.
Inching forward-sometimes sideways-in four-point style, feet sliding on the ice, 10 miles per hour my top speed, I squinted through a flash of sunshine glaring off the snow. The summit stood in snow-swept glory-halfway there!
But I was soon informed that this is not necessarily good news. “Now comes the hard part-you’re heading down instead of climbing up.” And that means feet have to serve not only as stabilizers, but brakes, too.
The dreaded first turn after the summit descended steeply ahead. Don’t touch the front brake-picking up speed even though I’m in first gear, hand off throttle-don’t touch that front brake!
I didn’t touch it.
I grabbed it-fiercely; clenched it really, quickly joining a jumble of others whose panic responses were as strong as my own. The road was soon strewn with banged-up bikes and bruised riders, all laughing hard as we tried to help each other get going again. Luckily, everyone wore so many layers as protection against the cold that we practically bounced off the hard ground.
A spray of snow splashed my foggedup face shield. Two dirtbikes let out a high-pitched howl as they whizzed past, tires gripping an icy curve as if it were a loamy piece of motocross track.
“Wimps!” a guy next to me yelled from underneath his tipped bike. “Real men don’t use studs!” I would have joined in the laughter, but I was too busy picking up my TW again and gingerly probing a blossoming bruise.
“Man,” said Rick Roos, a local Yamaha representative on his virgin Elephant ride, “I’d sell my soul for a handful of floor screws.”
Just then, a studless TW200 zipped by.
A Bonneville with bare tires followed. I watched as a Honda XL250 neatly negotiated the turn that had been my downfall. “Original tires,” the owner said sheepishly, “9000 miles on ’em.”
Stripped of any and all excuses, there was nothing I could do but turn again to my TW, which coughed to life without complaint. Thankfully, the end was soon in sight. The snow started to turn to slush, and one bend later, the most beautiful bit of gravel I’ve ever seen spread over the road, finally giving my tires something to chew on. It was just a few more miles to Georgetown where the rest of the group was congregating, and I fantasized about warm congratulations and hot coffee.
Much to my dismay, the java was steaming, but praise was lukewarm at best. Apparently, the fact that a blowing blizzard hadn’t blanketed our efforts made this simply a hohum ride in the Rockies for some. “It wasn’t all that exciting,” shrugged Dave Tharp, nonchalantly wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.
“Just another day in Colorado,” added Vaughn Richards who informed me casually that he had muscled his Venture Royale across the mountain and back again in the time it took me to slide to the summit.
I finally found a fellow rider who would commiserate about the cold ride. Slowly savoring cups of coffee, we bragged about our bruises and slowly started thawing out. I was almost able to feel my toes again-just a few more hours sitting right here, and I’ll be fíne, I thought.
“Okay, suit up!” The announcement shattered my reverie. “Time to head back.”
Back? Whaddaya mean-back?
“You mean over Guanella again?” I asked incredulously.
“Sure, we want to get some more riding in. C’mon, we’ve still got a couple hours of daylight yet.”
Gripping the coffee cup for dear life, firmly velcroed to my warm seat, I all of a sudden remembered that there were a coupla things I just had to pick up at the mall. □
