Part 1 – The Ride from California to Colorado

Thinking of the August heat, my better half, Peter, pointed out that taking Highway 80 across northern Nevada in August was lunacy. Highway 50 was also an option but with the nickname of “the loneliest highway” and with the memory of a bike-totaling crash etched permanently in my leather pants, I looked at other options. There was no escaping triple-digit heat crossing Nevada and Utah but even a five-degree temperature differential would make a difference so I agreed with his common sense and went south instead. Peter has an affinity for Death Valley and takes every opportunity to ride there. Having never taken Highway 58 I crossed Death Valley off my route plan. The basic route was:

The map above is on OpenRoadJourney.com. [The orange "end of trip" marker in Southern California is bogus, I'm trying to get that fixed.]

Highway 101 South from San Francisco to Gilroy, the Garlic capital of the world

Highway 152 East across Pacheco Pass

Highway 5 South - Ugly, but satisfies the need for speed (just have to watch for cops on four wheels and in helicopters)

Highway 58 across the Mojave Desert (next time I'll go through Death Valley - much more scenic than Hwy 58)

Highway 15 north east crossing the Virgin River gorge at the foot of Nevada, across the northwest corner of Arizona into southwestern Utah

Highway 70 east across more than half of Colorado

Highway 6 to Keystone, with a loop across the Loveland Pass, 11,990 feet over the Continental Divide.

This ride would include open desert, mountain passes, daylight temperatures ranging from the low 40’s to over 100 degrees F.

Escape from Silicon Valley
The first point of relaxation was the horsey smell of Morgan Hill. The next long sigh of relief emerged at the sight of the San Luis Reservoir even with the gusty winds.
Those were just practice winds for the ride through Mojave – I was already thinking about those windmills. (photo by Grace)

Highway 5 delivered on the promise I made to the GS for some open throttle time. The carbon build-up on my brain burned off and I felt my senses perk up. The signs for Tehachapi reminded me that I didn’t have my distance butt under me yet. After only 300 miles I was ready to call it a day. The third long sigh reverberated in the steamy shower at the motel.

Not as smart as I think am
I went to bed thinking, "I don’t want to see the blades of those windmills turning." Rising before dawn, I put on my cool weather jacket and pointed the bike eastward. As the windmill farm came into view I smiled to myself. What do snakes and windmill blades have in common? Cool air slows their movement. I was very proud of myself until I noticed an other-worldly warm yellow-red glow on the hills in front of me. Instead of feeling anticipation for the sunrise I felt foreboding but couldn’t understand why. Understanding hit me in the eyes as I rounded a curve and passed between two walls of glowing red earth – I was riding due east and staring straight into the rising sun. A quick swap to the dark visor yielded no relief. Neither did the emergency sun-glass goggles. I hadn’t tried them on with my current helmet – the face pads fit so closely that the goggles couldn’t sit properly on my nose. I rode for the next hour wondering what it is was about “the sun rises in the east and sets in the west” that I didn’t understand until now.

From Tehachapi, CA to St. George, UT was only 363 miles but 300 of those miles were in brain-frying heat. By noon I need to change into my airflow jacket. Two years ago on the ride to Seattle while trying to look over my shoulder to change lanes on a twisty road I discovered that the padded straps of the meant-for-skiing Camelbak impeded the range of motion of my helmet-encased head. The new Camelbak with its thin shoulder straps worked perfectly. I sipped the Nuun electrolyte replacement spiked water all day but still needed to stop three times for ice. One cup of ice will keep my core cool for about an hour. I poured the ice down my bra, not into the Camelbak. Most athletic tops for women have a “shelf-bra”, that is, an elastic band that encircles the chest just under the sternum. I positioned the ice chips so that they were against my ribs, not on top of or between my breasts – wipe that silly grin off your face.

The August heat is a small price to pay for the privilege of riding in the open desert. Whatever work-related pre-occupations and concerns weren’t broiled to ash and released out of my helmet’s vents, the colors of the desert and the melting ice slowly washed off my body onto the hot-enough-to-fry-an-egg tarmac.

In southern Nevada Highway 15 takes you through a spectacular gorge cut by the Virgin River which runs from central Utah to Lake Mead. The gorge is actually located in the northwest corner of Arizona and exposes several beds of rock that striate the steep walls. Virgin River Gorge separates the Utah desert from the one time marsh area in southeast Nevada now known as the Virgin Valley. Passing through this gorge was cathartic - finally I was able to completely relax and breathe freely.
Virgin River Gorge - photo from AmericanSouthwest.net

I marked the end of my day in St. George, Utah. If you must have a beer at the end of your riding day you'll want do some research/planning or you may have to go to bed dry. You can’t just go to the grocery store and buy a six pack in Utah. If you stay in St. George you want to be near the Palms Restaurant and Steakhouse (next to the Holiday Inn) which has a state liquor license. And, if you arrive on a Sunday you’ll find your choices for places to eat restricted to places near major highways. “What do people do here on Sundays?” asked the fellow at the next table, clearly annoyed that everything seemed to be closed. “People who live here go to church and spend time with their families.” replied the waitress with just a trace of superiority behind her professional smile.

Time to slow down
I had given myself four days to get to Keystone, CO. I was halfway there and had escaped the stupefying gravitational pull of Silicon Valley. From St. George to Salina was 184 miles had I followed the main highway but that need had faded away. I left Highway 15 and turned onto highway 89, saw a nice looking road and turned, not really knowing where it would go. That “nice looking road” was highway 173 which twists its way through the Cedar Breaks national monument.

One of the pleasures of traveling solo is the ability to stop at any “Scenic View” that you want to without having to worry about surprising/annoying your traveling companions with your sudden stop. I stopped because my heart was pounding in my chest. When I saw the sign for the Chessman Canyon overlook, I knew why, I had climbed from 2,860 feet (St. George) to over 10,000 feet in a few hours and my sea-level heart needed a moment. While I had been experiencing jaw-dropping natural beauty all throughout Utah, as I approached the edge of the lookout in the Chessman Canyon I felt my mouth agape again. The canyon is a 3-mile wide natural amphitheater that has been eroded out of the variegated Pink Cliffs near Cedar City, Utah. Geological uplift and erosion have created a deep canyon of rock walls, fins, spires and columns that you can stare at for hours.

I made another spur-of-the moment turn off Highway 70 to visit to Cove Fort which was established in 1857 by the followers of Brigham Young. The fort was restored in the 1990s and they did a fine job finding period-correct artifacts. The stone work on the fort is remarkable – the local lava rock was used on the outside of the four-foot thick walls, limestone was used on the inside to help keep the interior cool. I have a “rag rug” runner in my home but the significance of that term became clear when I saw the cut up strips of worn-out clothing in the process of being woven on a loom that was set up in one of the fort’s rooms. The quilts on the various beds are works of art though you have to wonder when the women had time to do quilting with all the cooking, cleaning and caring work they did. Elders from the Church of Latter Day Saints (more commonly known as the Mormon church) will be your tour guide and yes they will tell you about their faith and offer you a chance to learn more. The guides I had were a sweet elderly couple, quite knowledgeable about the history of fort and the activities of the people who lived there. Don’t miss the barn – the woodwork made my engineer’s heart joyful. Contrary to my expectations, no comment was made about my traveling alone on a motorcycle – my old-world traditional guides practiced the tolerance that they request from non-church members.

The 100 or so miles between Salina and Green River were both challenging due to the heat and achingly beautiful. My riding pace had slowed because I was mesmerized by the San Rafael Swell.
This land formation would be a national monument anywhere else, I can only imagine that it isn’t one in Utah because they have so many already. I recommend stopping at the Best Western in Green River. The complimentary breakfast is made from locally grown food courtesy of the eponymous water source which is a tributary of the Colorado River. No, I didn’t learn much geography in school, I visited the John Wesley Powell museum across the street from the Best Western and learned about the Colorado River system from a great video re-enactment of Powell's exploration of the Green River in a wooden boat. Here's a clip from the video.

Another gem of a small museum is the Dinosaur Museum in Fruita, Colorado. This museum will bring out the kid in you with its delightful animatronic figures. I had parked the bike in the shade of a large crab apple tree and selected few rosey fruit to eat. While I was munching crab apples the museum’s caretaker told me about that I would be riding through Glenwood Canyon and that I should stop at the No Name rest stop. With the image of a velociraptor skeleton in my mind (the Jurrasic Park movie took great liberties with scale), I continued eastward.

The Glenwood Canyon is a marvel and the engineering of the highway and bike trail through the canyon are nearly equal marvels. The speed limit in this section of highway 70 is 50 mph – I had a hard time going that fast because I was looking at the rock walls on either side of the highway and amazed at the highway itself. As best I can figure, I was at 8,000 feet and feeling dingy. I was riding like a ninny. Trucks were passing me on the left – I would have waved them by but I needed both hands on bike. Once again, if my mandible were not connected to my cranium I would have left my lower jaw 90 miles east of Grand Junction.

The No Name rest stop is a jewel of a rest stop probably named for one of the three boats that Major Powell and 8 other intrepid men explored the Colorado River with. The No Name boat was dashed to pieces at Disaster Falls early in the trip so it is befitting to have this resting place as a memorial. Having sucked down a full litre of Nuun-infused water over the last hundred or so miles, I was most happy to visit the clean facilities, rest in the shady trellised garden and give my sea-level brain a while to do nothing and "just be".

Returning the highway, the bike wanted to wander around. We ended up on Highway 24 and decided to stop in Leadville, Colorado. If I had stayed on the bike any longer I was going to fall down, not from exhaustion but from lack of acclimation to the altitude. I had arrived just before the weekend of the Leadville Trail 100 Ultramarathon (aka The Race Across The Sky or the LT100). This annual ultra-marathon is run on trails and dirt roads at high altitude west and south of Leadville, through the heart of the Rocky Mountains. Runners climb and descend 15,600 feet with elevations ranging between 9,200-12,620 feet. Because of its difficulty it is common for less than half the starters to complete the race ahead of its 30 hour time limit. Due to the altitude, I couldn’t continue riding and decided to walk around town and gaze wistfully at small stone carvings of animals and other tourist chotchke.

The Garmin GPS was giving me fits on this trip; the route that I apparently uploaded from the MapSource software was not the one I thought I had loaded. I was using the GPS only when I needed to find something, like the nearest motel. The GPS provides the location (map), address and phone number of businesses. Standing next to my bike, one finger of one hand poking the menus of the GPS screen, the other hand holding my cell phone to my ear, I found a motel with an available room. It bothers me to speak my credit card number out loud over the phone but I didn’t want to risk losing the room after finding out that everything nearby was already taken. Fortunately no one was standing nearby the stinky disheveled rider who was having trouble walking a straight line.

The next morning I gave the sun a good hour to get off the horizon while I lolled in bed so that I wouldn’t be riding due east again at daybreak. At 10,152 feet there was still August morning ice on the windshields of the cars in the parking lot. My hot weather jacket had disappeared into the right pannier and wouldn’t be seen again until riding west after the conference. My poor bike spent a cold night and didn’t appreciate the early wake up – it took a couple of tries to start and needed some throttle to keep running long enough to warm up. I figured we would both get fuel at Copper Mountain. Its easy to understand why Colorado has a School of Mines given local town names such as Basalt, Gypsum, Leadville, and Copper Mountain. The ride north on Highway 91 takes you along the Continental Divide past the ghost town of Climax which is at an elevation of about 11,360 feet. Climax was an unincorporated mining village known for its large molybdenum ore deposit – molybdenum is used in high-strength steel alloys. I didn’t know it was a ghost town – it’s on the map and I was thinking of getting breakfast there. Instead, Climax gives off a bleak aura – as you would expect from a ghost town.



Had a great breakfast at the Blue Moose café in Breckenridge, named in the spirit of Paul Bunyun’s companion, Babe, the blue ox.
Stopped in Dillon for gas and decided to get my hair cut before arriving at the conference. I must have given off a really bad vibe - I got the worst hair cut I have ever had.

Riding past the Keystone resort I could see the semi-trucks unloading the demo bikes from Harley, Buell, Moto Guzzi, BMW, Yamaha, Kawasaki and Kymco and thought about just chilling out for the rest of the day but there was one more thing I wanted to do before shifting into conference mode. Loveland Pass – 11,990 feet above sea level on the Continental Divide – sure to have plenty of twisties – sure to be a challenge for this acrophobic, no-aptitude for altitude rider. If I didn’t try it now, I wouldn’t do it later. Highway 6 would loop me over the pass then I could take the Eisenhower tunnel back to Keystone. It sounded so simple but just thinking about riding this pass made my sphincter tighten up. Pacheco Pass near my home isn’t even at altitude but the winds there can slap you hard. The winds in most mountain passes make you pay attention. Add snow into the equation and you usually get sand on the road surface, even during the summer when the snow shouldn’t be there. I say "shouldn’t" because I’ve encountered snow on mountain roads in July.

Riding Loveland pass is a rite of passage – it has a 6.7% grade, hairpin turns on both sides, and breathtaking views.

I had spoken to my friends and former Colorado residents Bryan and Karalyn about this pass – I was scared that I’d get an altitude headache and keel over. This wasn’t an irrational fear – Peter had tried to get me to the top of Mt. Whitney in California many years ago. Base camp is at 9,000 feet – no problem. The paralyzing headache started at 10,000 feet. At 11,000 feet I lay down and couldn’t move – Peter completed the hike to the top, 14,440 feet, then came down, helped me stand up and walked me down to 10,000 feet where we camped for the night. I thought my head was going to explode. Bryan and Karalyn encouraged me to try the Loveland Pass – they felt that the three days of travel would be sufficient time to acclimate and they were right.

In general I’m okay going uphill. I know it is irrational but I wish there was a way to not have to ride down steep hills. I felt I had earned my hotel room by the time I arrived at the Keystone Resort check in, ears still popping, still checking to make sure I wasn’t clenching my teeth. As I unpacked the bike I heard it tell me, “You know, you’re still kinda dingy, don’t drink any alcohol, okay?”

Part 2 – Impressions from the AMA Women’s Conference

Part 2: Impressions from the 2009 AMA Women's Conference

I attended these seminars at the AMA Women’s Conference:

Solo Riding and Touring

Survive Institute

Dual Sport and Adventure Riding

Accident Scene Management, Part 1

Pick up your own bike

I didn’t do any demo rides. Honestly, I was generally dingy from the altitude and, I was riding with a sprained right ankle. I figured I was tempting fate enough already, I didn’t want to push my luck on a bike I didn’t already own.

I recommend the Survive Institute to everyone. This presentation is a “bring the house down” experience that leaves you educated, empowered and grinning from ear-to-ear. The content is not politically correct, not what law enforcement tells you, not what martial arts instruction tells you, not what your parents and teachers tell you, and even so the message resonates down in the belly as truth you won’t hear from anyone else.

The Accident Scene Management seminar was one segment from a full course for motorcyclists for how to manage the scene of a motorcycle crash in particular, but any accident scene in general. The content of the segment I attended was outstanding. I hope to find a local class so that I can get the rest of the course material.

There were two places where women could learn to pick up their own bike, in the “marketplace” (where the vendor booths were located) and the parking lot where the demo rides were staging. In the marketplace there was a lot of whooping, cheering and clapping going on as one woman after another succeeded in raising a lying-down Harley to a standing position. At the Progressive Insurance booth in the parking lot I met Sue Slate, the National Programs Chair of the Women’s Motorcyclist Foundation. I asked if they might use my bike for the “pick up your own” demonstration in the afternoon. She asked what I was riding and broke into a grin when I told her – she’s not much bigger than me and rides a bike taller than mine. Reading my mind she asked if I needed to wait until the afternoon. “Umm, no, sooner is good.”

With my bike lying on its side on a sleeping bag, on a down-hill slant, I was shown this method, then it was my turn to try. There was one spotter at either end of my bike giving me directions and encouragement. I could smell how nervous I was. It took a few tries to find the right leverage point, I started too low on both tries. Once my butt was in the right place it took some leg muscle and mental focus but the bike came up. Finding the kickstand with your heel when facing away from the bike was nerve wracking – my foot knows where to go but from this orientation my foot had no clue where that kickstand was and, being nervous, I was sure that looking down ensured that the bike will go down. Eventually I found the kickstand with some verbal coaching from the spotters. I was also shown how to turn around while holding up the bike so that my shoulders would be facing the handle bars which would give my foot a more familiar angle. Again the trick was to lean into the bike with your hip.

I succeeded in raising the bike twice. I didn’t try a third time because the effort to press the bike up moved the cuboid and navicular bones in the foot attached to the sprained ankle in a way that aggravated the sprain. Sue was non-plussed when I told her why I didn't want to try a third time. "Well, a sprained ankle isn’t a far-fetched scenario for a motorcycle rider, you gotta learn how handle to these things." Nor had she blinked when someone pointed out that the bike was lying down on a downhill slant. "She might as well experience that now." I love it, a practical, plain-spoken woman - I found her magnetic and magnanimous.

I had to stand still for a few moments and let the experience sink in. I rode away from parking lot both dazed and dingy - heavens above, I did it, I picked up my own GS! Once my ankle heals I think this is something worth practicing a few times in my own garage.

Solo Riding and Touring

Once people get past the idea that I like riding by myself, then come the rest of the questions:

“What will do you do if you get into mechanical trouble?”

“What if the bike falls down, can you get the bike up by yourself?”

“What if the bike falls down and you’re stuck under it?”

“What if you get lost?”

“Aren’t you worried about creepy men figuring out that you are riding alone?”

“Won’t you get lonely?”

“How will I know you’re okay?”

“What if you are injured badly enough to need emergency care? How will you (and the bike) get home?”

“What if you die?”

Let’s take these one at a time. My comments include what I’ve been doing out of paranoia and what I learned from the panel of Carla King, moto-blogging pioneer and world traveler, Sarah Shilke, street rider turned amateur off-road racer , and Alice Sexton, world traveler, vintage road racer and president of the Women’s International Motorcycle Association.

“What will do you do if you get into mechanical trouble?”

If you’re Carla King, you know how to fix just about anything.

In my case, I get my bike serviced a month before I take a trip – I tell the mechanic that I’m preparing for a long ride. Don't have the service done just before you leave, there won’t be time to discover (and fix) something like a poorly seated crush ring, or something else that might not have been put back together quite right.

I also practice plugging a tire – it never fails to amaze me how much strength it takes to ream out the opening for the plug – and, the insertion device is not intuitive – if I don’t practice using it I just know I’ll be cursing at myself on the side of the road as it is getting dark and the mosquitoes descend.

Know how to do a TCLOCK check and do it.

Subscribe to a road service. I have BMW’s road service.

Join a group that has a network through the area you'll be traveling. I’m a member of BMW Owners of America which provides me with a network of people who will help even a lone wolf rider in trouble.

The best tip was to carry the bike’s service manual on the bike so that if the best you do is get the bike to a shade tree mechanic, that person might be able to figure out what to do from the manual.

If all else fails, get help to load the bike in to a UHaul and drive yourself home on four wheels.

“What if the bike falls down, can you get the bike up by yourself?”

See “Pick Up Your Own” above. [Grin] And I pray that I don’t lay it down on loose gravel (deprives you of good footing) when I’m riding solo.

“What if the bike falls down and you’re stuck under it?”
This would be a problem; it has happened to me. I was stuck in a parking lot sitting on my butt with my foot pinned by the bike until someone came along lifted the bike up one inch so I could slide my foot out. Allan Karl, (WorldRider), says that based on his personal experience, a solo rider never really rides alone, there are always people who will appear if you need help.

“What if you get lost?”
I can get lost in my own back yard. I can’t find my way out of a paper bag in my own back yard. I uploaded the wrong route into my own GPS. When I get flustered, I can’t read a map. If I calm down I will figure out to read the map. If I keep using the GPS I’ll learn how to use it properly. I have the BMW Owners book of kind people and a cell phone. I’m female, my pride doesn’t suffer when I have to ask for directions.

“Aren’t you worried about creepy men figuring out that you are riding alone?”

Here’s where attending the Survive Institute seminar was justification for the entire conference fee. One of the main points was that we teach our kids not to talk to strangers. Here at this conference, what are 1,000 conference attendees doing? Talking to strangers, only as adults we call it “networking”. And when I have to ask for directions, aren’t I talking to a stranger? Survive Institute recommends reframing the caution to, “Don’t talk to creeps”. Now that makes more sense; we all know that gut level feeling we get when somebody is creepy.

From my own experience I know that I’m less than attractive after a few hundred miles – helmet hair for sure, sometimes blood shot eyes, too.

The affirmation from the seminar was, most guys take one look at a solo female rider and think, “Jeez, I’m not messing with her.”

From my martial arts training experience I know that you can learn to turn on the “Don’t even think about talking to me” vibe.


“Won’t you get lonely?”
No. Do you know the book, “Leave Me Alone I’m Reading”? I should get a t-shirt printed, “Leave Me Alone I’m Riding”. Time alone with oneself and nature is precious.

“How will I know you’re okay?”

I sent text messages to my sister, one friend and to Peter at the end of each riding day, The format of the message was simple, “Safe at (name of town)”.

From the seminar I learned about the Spot personal locator, - this very cool device enables you to designate people that you want to be able to track your progress. It allows you to send three types of messages, "I’m safe" (e.g., at the end of the day), "I need assistance" (non-emergency), and "I need emergency help".

Carla King uses Twitter to keep her large fan-base apprised of her adventures.

“What if you are injured badly enough to need emergency care? How will you (and the bike) get home?”
I have a policy with MASA , a medical airlift service, because they will take care of me and my bike. For this trip to Colorado I took out a short term policy with MASA – it was cheaper than the full year subscription that I have had in the past.

Another emergency airlift service provider that I’ve seen mentioned in the motorcycle community is MedJet.

I learned from the Accident Scene Management seminar that my carefully composed summary of everything a medical person might need to know about me is useless unless the document is on my person. If the document is in your tank bag, it is useless because the tank bag doesn’t go with you to the hospital. What goes with you are the clothes you are wearing when they put you on the gurney. So, my DNR and the medical summary (name, age, blood type, allergies, name of doctor, names of emergency contacts, medications I need to take, medical insurance policy number, MASA account number and phone number) now live in ziplock bag (double bagged) in the inside pocket of my riding jacket.

There's also RoadID, a small dog tag that you can wear around your neck, wrist or ankle. RoadID engraves your critical-to-know information on the tag.

“What if you die?”
Dying is something that is eventually going to happen to all of us. I’d rather die doing something I love to do than go to my grave wishing. My family has copies of my Living Trust – and my bike is paid off.

On the lighter side, here are some other tips that the panel came up with:

If you decide to bring your bike into your motel room with you, don’t block the door with the bike – in case of a fire you don’t want to lose precious time moving the bike.

Join riding clubs – use the club networks as a way to have a place to stay, a way to have people know when you’ll be in their town, find people who know the local roads.

Wear all the gear all the time (ATGATT)

If you are just starting out riding solo, consider taking roads that are well-traveled. This doesn’t mean you have to take the main highways, there are plenty of well-traveled two-lane roads.

Keep water, electrolyte replacement or EmergenC and snacks in your tank bag – its easy to avoid fatigue from dehydration or lack of sustenance.

Keep cash on you – credit and debit card readers sometimes can’t read your card, or, your bank may put a hold on your card thinking its been stolen (this has happened to me – it is hard to get mad at the bank for doing this, I’d rather have to call them than run the risk of identity theft).

If you need to leave your bike, leave it in a visible well-populated place like right in front of a fruit stand – buy some fruit and ask the shop keeper if he/she would keep an eye on your bike. They will also be aware of you.

If you are camping at a campground, tell the camp office that you are traveling alone. They will put you in a safe location.

Here is the Iron Butt Association's list of best practices for distance riders. Most Iron Butt riders ride solo because no one in their right mind will ride with someone who is in the throes of this kind of obsession.

Trust your gut – if you have to make a choice trust your inner voice of reason.

The Solo Riding seminar was given several times over the course of the conference. Based on the screaming laughter audible through the conference center walls, each presentation was better than the previous one. I’m hoping that Carla, Sarah, and Alice will compile a list of their ideas and the contributions from the different audiences and post it on their web sites.

* * *

The AMA says there were 800 pre-registered attendees and around 200 walk-ins.

As I was getting ready to leave the conference the husband of the rider of the big Yamaha cruiser parked next to me asked if he could ask about my bike while I was packing up. I don’t know how many of the attendees were husbands/boyfriends/family members but I was surprised to see quite a few men. The Yamaha husband and I talked for nearly half an hour. He said there was more helpful information at this women’s conference than any of the “regular” AMA conferences he had attended. He was impressed with how the women generously shared all their knowledge and experience. In particular he had attended the seminar on “Making Your Bike Fit You” where he heard questions that he asserted men would never ask for fear of appearing inadequate. He implied that had a woman asked the question, the answer coming back from most men would have had an underlying patronizing tone. No, really? His questions had to do with how a 5’3” 120 pound female with a 29” inseam was riding a 1200 GS. He was in love with German engineering but not particularly tall - he had simply assumed that riding a GS was a far-fetched dream. I told him everything I could think of that was relevant and encouraged him to go test ride the three models (650-twin, 800, 1200) of GS bikes BMW had available for demo rides. Once the fear of receiving a condescending response was lifted, this guy released a flood of inquiries that revealed glimpses into long repressed dreams.

After he left I recalled that one of the spotters who helped me learn to pick up my GS was a guy, Pete from Marin, a kind, tall, lanky fellow riding a BMW K model. It didn’t occur to me at the time to tell him that I appreciated the way he spoke to me – not a trace of patronization – just encouragement and complete belief that I was going to get that GS off the ground, solo.