Riding the Roof

LEANINGS

Riding the Roof

Peter Egan

WHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS it becomes necessary to attend a family reunion, you can thank your lucky stars if it’s hosted by a couple of avid motorcyclists who just happen to live on a mountainside overlooking Estes Park, Colorado.

I speak here of Barb’s cousin, Gary Rumsey and his charming wife Bonnie, who live right in the heart of Rocky Mountain National Park.

I’m not saying you should absolutely not attend a family reunion held in, say, Normal, Illinois, hosted by a cousin who collects Hummel figurines, but you’re much less likely to shoot yourself or suddenly cultivate a heroin habit while hanging out with fellow riders in the mountains of Colorado.

Yes, there we were, at about 7200-foot elevation, standing on the deck of the Rumsey’s mountain home, surrounded by a cirque of snowcapped peaks that looked like a backdrop for The Sound of Music, only with more cowboy boots and fewer examples of lederhosen. Stunning scenery, clear air and smooth, twisting roads leading off in every direction.

Later, we retired to the living room to look at early family photos that were (I know you won’t believe this) truly fascinating. The family is old American pioneer stock that farmed in Kansas and survived the terrible Dust Bowl years and then moved to Colorado after WWII. You see photos of Barb’s dad on the farm with his three brothers, all dressed in their Sunday best. Hats, nice ties and suits.

Behind them are the dusty plains, farm machinery and gray, wind-blasted bams, but the brothers all look like Clark Gable or Tyrone Power in downtown Manhattan. Dignity and class in the hardest of hard times. The no-excuses generation.

So, the old family pictures were good to see, but my own favorite historic document of the evening was a map rather than a photo. After the slideshow, Gary took me aside and unfurled a large map of the U.S., with all his lifetime motorcycle trips highlighted in black pen. Gary’s been riding and touring all his adult life (he currently has a BMW R1150RT in the garage), so his route map looks like the wiring diagram for my Lotus Elan, only less prone to fire. He’s been almost everywhere.

“I’ve often thought of doing this,” I said, looking at the map. “Maybe I will when I get home-if I can still remember where I’ve been.” If I were to make such a map, of course, a lot of those highlighted routes would lead to Colorado.

You can always start a lively debate about the best state in the Union for riding motorcycles, but I suspect Colorado would make it into the top three for anyone who’s ever been there. When you have a state “sometimes called the Roof of North America because between 50 and 60 peaks reach 14,000 feet or more above sea level” (according to my ancient World Book Encyclopedia), the riding pretty much has to be good.

I’ve been there so often I’ve gradually developed a mental roadmap of favorite places. The Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the Million Dollar Highway from Durango to Ouray, Highway 67 up to Cripple Creek and Victor...well, the list goes on and on.

And those are just the paved roads... Paved or dirt, there are almost no bad roads in Colorado, once you get west of the Front Range. I have favorite old Western towns, too, Craig, Montrose... And our favorite Mexican restaurant used to be a place called the Stockmen’s Café in Montrose, where we always stopped on our many backpacking and motorcycle trips in Colorado. Unfortunately, it was closed last time we passed through but scheduled to reopen. I hope it did. Once you ride in Colorado, you just keep going back. But we didn’t have to on this trip. We said good-bye to the extended family and drove down the Big Thompson River canyon (in a Honda Odyssey, with Barb’s sister Pam and brother-inlaw Richard Ripp) to visit our friends Mike and Bonnie Mosiman in Fort Collins. Mike has an ever-rotating collection of motorcycles in his garage, so of course we immediately put on riding gear and went right back up into the mountains, this time along the Cache la Poudre River canyon.

I rode his Triumph 900 Scrambler (with its euphonious Norman Hyde exhaust) and Mike took his new BMW F800GS. Two other suspicious characters rode with us-Scott Barber on his BMW R1200S and Dave Scott on his beautifully restored R60/5. Dave is another survivor of our off-road trek through Mexico’s Copper Canyon two years ago, during which Mike tried to murder us by taking a “scenic shortcut” through the mountains to Batopilas, as recommended by a drunken German in a cantina. Nevertheless, we are all still alive and have almost forgiven Mike. Though if I were him I wouldn’t quit sleeping with that gun under my pillow just yet.

Anyway, we had a great ride up the Poudre before an evil, glowering thunderstorm turned us away at Cameron Pass. The downhill trip was like a dream of flying, with white rapids crashing through the rock gorge on the way down.

That night, we all had margaritas and enchiladas at the Rio Grande Mexican Restaurant in Fort Collins. We were joined by Tom Barbour, the musician/ Ducati buff who was good enough to sell me back my original old black & gold bevel-drive 900SS last year.

Nice town, Fort Collins. Not too big, not too small. Good friends, great roads. Also excellent margaritas. The next morning we headed east, back toward Wisconsin, and hit the plains of eastern Wyoming. The snow-capped peaks receded in our rearview mirror and then disappeared entirely, like Oz vanishing over the curvature of the Earth.

Funny, I reflected, how many places start to feel like home when you ride there often enough. If you have friends with motorcycles-and they all have maps like cousin Gary’s-this country makes a great neighborhood. Ó