Its good when things just happen, you go with the flow and are well rewarded. I got away from the motel as late as I could, and buggered around in the library for a couple of hours too. But it was worth it, being unsure of which scenic route to take south, a chance meeting with another biker decided for me. He was emphatic about taking the 550, from Granby to Durango, then heading east to Cortez and the Mesa Verde. where the cliff dwellings of the Anasazi Indians could be found. All too often such strongly put advice can put me off, but a bit of trust doesn't necessarily amiss, in this case it was well placed. What an inspiring ride it was, from only a few miles out of Granby, almost to Durango itself. I've missed having close proximity to rugged, breath taking rock, rising vertically from the roadside, or dropping dramatically within inches of the kurb (or where the curb should be).
Definately one of those rides to write home about! Switchbacks came thick and fast, hellishly steep climbs for thousands of feet, the bends were of dreamlike quallity. Wide sweeping bends, curving round back onto themselves, then tight dramatic turns on the very edge of gorgeous chasms. Ooooh, its bliss! And there were an infinate number of noises, much better at communicating contentment, pleasure and pure adrenalin. The road just sucked me in, took me breathless to the very edge, then forced me to retreat. No matter how desperate I was to give it more on the throttle, to do so would mean a long plummet, down a gobsmacking gorge.
It was amazing the amount of restraint I showed, whenever getting stuck behind other traffic I just pulled over and got the camera out. Anywhere I could pull over provided a good photo opportunity, I would have been rude not to have made the most of it. It didn't matter whether the road was between tight cliffs, cut from the bare rock, or meandering through an open valley floor; it was still incredible to see, wonderful to feel the majestic beauty of the passes.
Due to the lateness of my departure this morning I didn't think I'd have reached the Mesa Verde, but I did. Once clear of the mountains there was no stopping me, open the throttle and let here rip. Not really that bad, I kept at 80 mph for a couple of hours, only stopping to buy some Tequila. So, by the time it was dark, I was putting up my tent. Spent the evening chatting to a couple who were about for the Louisianna hurrican, it didn't sound nice, and made worst by the complete lack of response from government sources.
Today's humour was delightfully provided by some older guy, he had just the cutest white socks on you can imagine, they really suited his sandles! OK, I was about to swing my leg over the saddle when he said something I couldn't hear at all, because of my crash helmet. Apologising for not hearing, I stepped closer, "How does your bike work?" I was absolutely sure he didn't want me explain the four stroke cycle, maybe it was the means of transmission he didn't understand. Naa, haven't the time! I was so perplexed by the question I could only ask what he meant. I know, I'm horrid, I've an aweful sense of humour and I shouldn't be so wicked to such innocent, sartorial guru's. He settled on knowing the engine size, amd from his reaction it was obvious he found it to his satisfaction. A truly bizzare meeting, it tickled me though.
It's been hard for me, the type of questions I've been punishing myself with! Everything from why did I get Cai interested in bikes to why didn't I give him a couple of grand and let him go off for a nice, group, summer of fun? Its obvious, there are endless ways to prolong the grief, will it serve any useful purpose though? Of course bloody not! Feeling sorry for myself, and finding ways of further diminishing my self esteem, is not good. If I respect Cai, as the equal he was, then I must respect his choices, his ability to think for himself and follow his own dreams. Ain't guilt a funny thing?
Its good when things just happen, you go with the flow and are well rewarded. I got away from the motel as late as I could, and buggered around in the library for a couple of hours too. But it was worth it, being unsure of which scenic route to take south, a chance meeting with another biker decided for me. He was emphatic about taking the 550, from Granby to Durango, then heading east to Cortez and the Mesa Verde. where the cliff dwellings of the Anasazi Indians could be found. All too often such strongly put advice can put me off, but a bit of trust doesn't necessarily amiss, in this case it was well placed. What an inspiring ride it was, from only a few miles out of Granby, almost to Durango itself. I've missed having close proximity to rugged, breath taking rock, rising vertically from the roadside, or dropping dramatically within inches of the kurb (or where the curb should be).
Definately one of those rides to write home about! Switchbacks came thick and fast, hellishly steep climbs for thousands of feet, the bends were of dreamlike quallity. Wide sweeping bends, curving round back onto themselves, then tight dramatic turns on the very edge of gorgeous chasms. Ooooh, its bliss! And there were an infinate number of noises, much better at communicating contentment, pleasure and pure adrenalin. The road just sucked me in, took me breathless to the very edge, then forced me to retreat. No matter how desperate I was to give it more on the throttle, to do so would mean a long plummet, down a gobsmacking gorge. 
It was amazing the amount of restraint I showed, whenever getting stuck behind other traffic I just pulled over and got the camera out. Anywhere I could pull over provided a good photo opportunity, I would have been rude not to have made the most of it. It didn't matter whether the road was between tight cliffs, cut from the bare rock, or meandering through an open valley floor; it was still incredible to see, wonderful to feel the majestic beauty of the passes.
Due to the lateness of my departure this morning I didn't think I'd have reached the Mesa Verde, but I did. Once clear of the mountains there was no stopping me, open the throttle and let here rip. Not really that bad, I kept at 80 mph for a couple of hours, only stopping to buy some Tequila. So, by the time it was dark, I was putting up my tent. Spent the evening chatting to a couple who were about for the Louisianna hurrican, it didn't sound nice, and made worst by the complete lack of response from government sources. 
Today's humour was delightfully provided by some older guy, he had just the cutest white socks on you can imagine, they really suited his sandles! OK, I was about to swing my leg over the saddle when he said something I couldn't hear at all, because of my crash helmet. Apologising for not hearing, I stepped closer, "How does your bike work?" I was absolutely sure he didn't want me explain the four stroke cycle, maybe it was the means of transmission he didn't understand. Naa, haven't the time! I was so perplexed by the question I could only ask what he meant. I know, I'm horrid, I've an aweful sense of humour and I shouldn't be so wicked to such innocent, sartorial guru's. He settled on knowing the engine size, amd from his reaction it was obvious he found it to his satisfaction. A truly bizzare meeting, it tickled me though.
It's been hard for me, the type of questions I've been punishing myself with! Everything from why did I get Cai interested in bikes to why didn't I give him a couple of grand and let him go off for a nice, group, summer of fun? Its obvious, there are endless ways to prolong the grief, will it serve any useful purpose though? Of course bloody not! Feeling sorry for myself, and finding ways of further diminishing my self esteem, is not good. If I respect Cai, as the equal he was, then I must respect his choices, his ability to think for himself and follow his own dreams. Ain't guilt a funny thing?
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