Dinner at South Park Saloon

Dining with BMW friends.
The South Park Saloon is a splendid bar/restaurant on Alma's Main Street.
It has a great frontier ambience and is the town's unofficial social center.
It's Alma's only bar, even though there is another place down the street named Alma's Only Bar, but the AOB is closed and therefore surrenders its title to the South Park Saloon.
The Baloughs and their seven BMW motorcycle guests repaired to the South Park Saloon Friday night for dinner. I had the 12-ounce rib eye with baked potato, corn on the cob and salad, along with a couple of 1554s, a really good dark beer made by the New Belgium brewery, the folks who make the popular Fat Tire beer. (Tim says 1554 is so named because the brewery sent some researchers to Belgium to trace the origins of that particular recipe and it went back all the way to the year 1554. So there.)Oh yeah, I had chocolate chip cheesecake for dessert.
We came back to the chalet and watched the last three episodes of the Long Way Round on DVD before crawling off to bed.

Plinking at 13,000 feet

Four of us hauled Tim's arsenal up the mountain to a remote bowl for a little target practice this morning.
Tim's pickup truck was loaded with about a dozen water-filled gallon milk jugs and some wooden targets that we arrayed in a small depression where there was absolutely no chance of any stray shots hurting anyone.
We were shooting at a range of about 25-30 yards and I was surprised that I could hit anything at that range with Tim's .38 special. The real revelation came when he handed me his Taurus .44 Magnum revolver. Suddenly, I was hitting my target about 4 out of 5 times and the results on the plastic milk jugs were spectacular. The Magnum is kind of unwieldy for a concealed carry personal sidearm, but it's a freaking cannon.
Tim also brought along a 12 gauge shotgun and I was reminded once again how painful it can be to shoot one of those things. I was done after two shots. All I remember about it was noise and shoulder pain.
We went down to Fairplay for lunch and I took the opportunity to exchange a denim shirt from the Colorado Mountain Hat Co. They make really high quality cowboy hats - Maria gave me one for Christmas a couple of years ago - and we stopped in to do some hat shopping when we were here last October. We bought a couple of CMHC embroidered long-sleeved denim shirts, but discovered that one of them had short sleeves when we finally opened the shopping bag at home. Maria mailed the shirt to me this week and the exchange was made without hesitation by the co-owner.

Steve - Same Place

My son Steve on the Trail Ridge Road in the late '90s - that trip was in my Honda del Sol. I believe we did the scary parts with the top off.

Me (left), Harold (right)

On the Trail Ridge Road. Taken by an obliging tourist.

Harold and I did a little 300-mile day ride up to Rocky Mountain National Park today. The weather was dead solid perfect. The ranger at the west portal let us both in on Harold's Golden Eagle pass, so the only money I spent in the park was $1.44 for an apple and a granola bar at the Trail Ridge Road visitors center. There was lots of construction on the upper levels of the road and I was reminded once more of how much heights bother me. There were several places where the edge of the road seemed to crumble off into infinity and I had to keep reminding myself that it's just a road and I'm still on solid ground.
We had a late lunch at a little cafe on the south end of Estes Park and Harold took the lead, following a route generated by his Garmin GPS. It may very well have been the fastest route, but I was surprised and a little alarmed to find us working our way through back streets in Boulder, having gone considerably farther east that I expected.
We picked up I-70 just west of Denver and had clear sailing all the way back to Alma.

High

Trail Ridge Road, Rocky Mountain National Park.
Harold Patterson and I out for a little jaunt above the treeline.

The saga continues

I'm back at Chateau Balough in Alma. The rain is back, the thunder is booming across the valley and I have a tumbler of Cutty Sark at my side.
The ride down to Denver was remarkably pleasant this morning. It was sunny and traffic was light and the Triumph Bonneville was actually fun to ride. It's a very basic old school motorcycle, complete with a manual choke and a fuel petcock and it was a whole lot more fun to ride knowing I didn't have far to go.
When I got to Foothills BMW, Alan told me the technician had taken my bike out for a test ride - a good sign and an indication that I'd be out of there soon.
I got a cup of coffee and hung out, trying not to nurse a grudge over having to wait overnight in a fleabag motel to get my bike work done.
When he finally tallied up the bill, Alan apologized again for the hassle. I rather pointedly asserted that 6 p.m., when the doors are being locked and the lights are turned out in the showroom is a hell of a time to find out that my bike was being kept overnight and I had to figure out where to crash and how to get there. I also noted that he had failed to communicate with the technician and that, if he had, things might have turned out better.
He went over the bill and showed me where he had deleted the labor charge for checking out my clutch. Then he asked what else he could do to make me happy. I suggested he could compensate me for my $45 motel bill, so he fiddled with the labor charges and backed that amount out of the bill.
I told him that I've spent enough time in bike shops to know that guys like him have to put up with a lot of crap from jerks and raging assholes and that I've always striven to not be that kind of customer. He seemed to appreciate my patience and forbearance and I came away feeling like they had done what they could to make it right with me. So I guess I can wear the Foothills BMW/Triumph T-shirt I bought without any remorse.
I rode back up to I-70 and headed into the mountains, enjoying the ride and being mindful that my new front tire might be a little slippery because of the release compound the manufacturers use to get the tires out of the molds. I always take it easy for the first 100 miles or so on a new tire to scrub it in.
As I approached Georgetown, I saw rain-slick pavement a mile ahead near the exit. I encountered the rain at the foot of the exit ramp and quickly rode under the canopy of a gas station where I topped off the tank and went inside for a gas station hot dog. A couple of helmetless Harley riders from Columbus, Ohio rode in and I chatted with them while we waited for the rain to stop. They were headed west into Utah and then down to Monument Valley, so I recommended Goulding's lodge and campgrounds at the north end of the valley.
I rode back through the Eisenhower Tunnel - I noticed yesterday that the eastbound lanes are actually through the Johnson Tunnel, which was completed in 1979 - six years after the Ike. I exited at Silverthorne, stopped at a coffee shop for a cafe mocha and then headed south on U.S. 6 to Swan Mountain Road and over to Colo. 9.
I ran into heavy rain as I started up Hoosier Pass, then rode through slushy hail on the highway about halfway down the pass. Not ready to quit for the day, I rode on to Fairplay for a dish of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
I was the only customer in the ice cream store as I hunkered down to enjoy my treat amid a noisy downpour and Miles Davis's "All Blues" album on the store stereo.
The rain stopped by the time I had finished, so I rode back to Alma and made it to the Baloughs' place a few minutes before the next storm rolled through.
I woke up this morning prepared to do battle at Foothills and am relieved that I didn't have to. Now I can enjoy the rest of the week, secure in the knowledge that I have good tires and working driving lights.

NFW

Here's the loaner bike Alan Attila gave me last evening to ride about 100 miles up to the highest town in the U.S. In the dark and cold. Then I was expected to ride it back in the brisk morning air.
And, there was always the risk of rain...
I'll blog the rest of this minisaga when I get back to Alma and have a proper keyboard, instead of thumb-typing on my Treo smartphone.

Classy joint. Not.

I stayed here 21 years ago. It's not improved. Dirty carpet, musty smell, previous occupant's used washcloth on the shower curtain rod.

WTF?

Alan Anttila, the service writer at Foothills BMW, completely misled me on how much time it would take to finish the work on my MotoLights wiring harness.
At 3 p.m., he estimated it would take another hour. I started getting concerned around 5 p.m. I went to the service desk and saw him struggling to help four or five guys who were lined up. So I went back to the waiting area and waited. As the 6 p.m. Closing time neared, I went outside and peered into the service department where I could see my bike on a lift, with several body panels lying on the floor.
Finally, I was able to ask Alan what was going on. He consulted with the technician and reported the guy needed another couple of hours.
Tonight?
No. Tomorrow.
But I'm staying up in the mountains in Alma. That's 100 miles away.
I had mentioned this detail to him when he filled out the work order, so it shouldn't have been a surprise.
He fumbled around and finally offered me a loaner bike to ride to Alma and back.
The bike? An unfaired Triumph Bonneville with no bags to carry my stuff. I was stunned. By now, it was about 6:30 and the sun was going down. It would be pitch dark and very cold by the time I flogged this underpowered little piece of shit up to Alma.
So I got onto I-70 and rode about 30 miles west to Idaho Springs where I got a $45 room in the Peoriana Inn motel, a delapidated joint that was substandard when Tim and Linda and I stayed there on the way home from California in July 1986.
I bought a sixpack of beer and had a light dinner at McDonald's and settled in for the night.
This is, to say the least, unacceptable and I will have words with the manager of Foothills tomorrow morning.

Still waiting...

Looks like I'll be late for dinner.

MotoLight fix

I'm still at the BMW dealer in Denver, burning shop time at a rate of $89 an hour, but it looks like we've gotten to the bottom of a problem that was making me crazy.
I had Revard BMW in Indy install caliper-mounted MotoLights driving lights about 4 years ago.
Last summer, my riding companions told me they weren't staying on consistently.
Earlier this summer I noticed them blink off one evening when I hit a bump while riding home.
My riding mates observed the same on/off stuff en route to Colorado.
So I asked the service guys here at Foothills to have a go at it.
The service writer just reported that an electrical connection under the gas tank had worn off insulation, causing the problem. They're replacing the quick-disconnect link with a hardwired solder connection sealed in shrink tape, which they believe will guarantee a good solid permanent fix.
It won't be cheap, but it will be worth it in terms of safety and peace of mind.
What a relief!

The Shoes Sisters

Not the Blues Brothers.

Sean on my XM

Riding down to Denver this morning, my XM radio beeped to alert me of a song from my request list. It was Australia from the Shins' album that my son Sean engineered.
Sure is cool to be cruising down a canyon highway in Colorado, listening to my son's work on satellite radio.
Here's the Georgetown rest area where I made a restroom stop.

What diet?

Monday afternoon at our favorite ice cream place. Fairplay, Colo.

Waiting

Hanging out in the luxurious customer lounge at Foothills BMW - cushy armchairs, coffee, cookies, fruit, internet access and stacks of motorcycle magazines.
Lunch was a burrito from Qdoba up the street.

Foothills BMW

I rode down to Denver this morning for a new front tire and an oil change. They're also troubleshooting my intermittent MotoLights problem and checking my clutch lever adjustment.
It's a very well put-together BMW-Triumph operation with lots of accessories and apparel. I bought a pair of Gore-Tex summer gloves to replace the pair that Pete ravaged. He chewed the Gore-Tex lining out of the right glove. His cuteness saved his life again...

Hoosier bike, Hoosier Pass

I shot this Monday afternoon when it occurred this may be my last time here as an Indiana resident.

Hydration

Buying a new CamelBak to replace the one I couldn't find when packing.

Outlaws

We were cruising west on U.S. 36 about 3 miles east of Cope in the flatlands of eastern Colorado about noon yesterday when we met a Colorado state trooper headed the other way.
His car had one of the new low profile light bars, so we didn't realize he was a cop in time to slow from our 80mph cruising speed to the legal limit of 65.
Harold Patterson was in the lead, then John Rode, me, and Bob Stewart.
We all watched in our rearview mirrors as he hit his brakes, did a U-turn and began to pace us at our now-legal speed. After a few seconds, he hit his red-and-blue flashers and Bob and I pulled over as he chased Harold and John down.
We pulled stopped behind his car, pulled off our helmets and prepared to dig under our seats for our registrations.
I think he was pleased that we were so cooperative and surprised to find the youngest of these speeding sport tourers (me) was 62.
He took our licenses and retired to his car where he presumably checked to see if any of us has outstanding warrants.
He was all smiles throughout and let us off with a verbal warning. Maybe we reminded him of his dad - or his grandfather.

On the road

Saturdayafternoon lunch at Chillicothe, Mo. A guy at the gas pumps seemed astonished that we'd come all the way from Indy in one day. Too bad he didn't see us 300 miles farther west when we stopped for the night.