Destination Unknown

Sunday, June 6, 2021

During the afternoon and evening, broad swaths of rain and thunderstorms would stream randomly across central Colorado.

There was no doubt about the reliability of this forecast.
​
In consideration of this, as I prepared to ride from Cathy's house I sent the following group text to my family:

Realizing this might be less than helpful in terms of where to look should I fail to transmit a subsequent message, I appended:

In Gunnison I'd refuel, and while taking lunch would consult the Oracle of Weather Radar.

Thus illuminated, I would then decide where to go next.

*

My ride north on CO-149 must, objectively, rank as The. Best. Ever.

It scored a 10 on every point of sport touring I care about.

I don’t think I could reliably enumerate how many times I’ve ridden BMW motorcycles along the Silver Thread. The first was in the early 1980s, and it gave me the feeling of being inside a BMW Motorrad advertisement.

It’s one of my favorite roads anywhere.

But on how many rides up or down that deliciously warped ribbon was I:

• Astride what is without question the most powerful, best handling, most technologically sophisticated, and just flat most fun street motorcycle I’ve ever ridden, let alone owned since new, let alone had the tremendous fortune of having toured for more than 70,000 miles across North America from the Appalachian Mountains to the California coast, from the barren depths of Death Valley to the foothills of Denali?
• Breaking in a brand-new set of Michelin Pilot Power 2CT tires, which are unquestionably the finest road motorcycle tires I’ve ever had the joy to lean into a curve?
• Basking in a gloriously bright and mild June day?
• Effectively unimpeded by traffic that could not be described as anything but “occasional” and, in multiple instances, more than willing to dive out of my way at the first opportunity?
• Able to assess the pavement quality on the north side of Slumgullion Pass as “flawless”?
• Wearing the best crash helmet I’ve ever owned, an ultra-high-tech skid lid built with wind noise minimization as a fundamental design objective, equipped with a phenomenally durable outer shield and a retractable inner sunshade, both visors having essentially perfect optical properties?
• Wearing the best riding suit, boots, and gloves (for the conditions) I’ve ever owned?
• Listening on a noise-cancelling audio system to my Grand Canyon Suite playlist, a collection of some of my favorite music compiled years earlier and which has since proven an ideal soundtrack to aimless wandering?

To be fair, the day ride I’d taken less than a week earlier checked almost all the same boxes.

But on that day,

• My previous set of tires (also Michelin Pilots, but not as good as Power 2CTs) were at the end of their life.
• The pavement on Slumgullion Pass was littered with patches of gravel that were absent a week later – thank you CDOT, or whoever had brushed it all away in the interim.
• I had a destination, something I don’t necessarily consider desirable, let alone ideal.

North of Lake City an interesting synchronicity occurred when my playlist dispensed a song from the album Joe’s Garage by Frank Zappa. The song, for which even the title is probably best left unmentioned here, features spoken word vocals by Dale Bozzio.

Dale Bozzio was the lead singer for the '80s new wave band Missing Persons.

One of Missing Persons' hit singles was Destination Unknown.

At Gunnison I found ethanol-free 91 octane, and the implication on Googlemaps that a Thai restaurant existed about a mile back the way I’d come.

A fruitless search for "Patcharee’s Kitchen" yielded nothing but Therese gradually expressing an ever-increasing degree of displeasure with puttering about at low speeds and low RPMs.

Thai cuisine apparently unavailable in Gunnison, I opted for Nepalese.

Sherpa Cafe, Gunnison, Colorado

At Sherpa Café, while waiting for my order of Thukpa (“Sherpa-style noodle soup”) I chatted with a couple clean-cut young guys at the next patio table.

One asked about my bike, mentioning his own Triumph Tiger. This in turn brought up the tale of my ride from Michigan, and an off-hand mention of earning my glider pilot license. The following counterpoint revealed the pair were pilots of a Citation jet, having lunch before returning to Austin, Texas.

Learning to fly a glider was on his bucket list, too.

Speaking of buckets, that's basically what my soup came in:

Thukpa, "with extra tentacles"

Laurel responded to this picture sent via text with, "Is that yak meat?"

I replied, "Should have asked for that! Whatever it is, it tastes like [emoji chicken]."

*

I consulted the Weather Oracle as I ate.

Continuing east on US-50 over Monarch pass was out of the question; it was swamped with thunderstorms I could see from where I sat. An option was to head west, where I'd stand a good chance of riding beneath mostly clear sky. Or I could go north to Crested Butte, where I’d been once before because I’d seen it had a Thai restaurant and I was ready for lunch at the time. Only 30 miles away, I could get there before any serious weather would have time to move in.

I tried to book a room in what looked like the oldest historic hotel in town, but a voice message sadly informed the lease to operate a lodge in the building had not been renewed. My next choice was the Old Town Inn, which was within easy walking distance to the local brew pub.

A reasonably-priced room was easily secured, as I'd expected on a Sunday in early June. I finished my soup and headed north.

Larry would have approved of this room not because it has a mountain view, but because a motorcycle can be parked mere inches from the bed.

After loading in and grabbing a shower, I headed downtown beneath ominously scudding clouds.

I recognized the building that had been a Thai restaurant last time I visited Crested Butte, but it clearly wasn’t such any more. I didn't make out exactly what was currently purveyed there, but didn’t slow my pace to discern it. There was some kind of pan-Asian bistro farther up the main drag, and perhaps I’d go there, but I doubted it; my destination, and indeed I now had one, was the brew pub known as The Eldo.

In a historic building and accessed via a flight of creaky wooden stairs, I was immediately introduced to the bar, the beer list, and the bartender Mariah (I’m guessing an “h” belongs, given the pronunciation).

I opted for a Face Down Brown ale, and enjoyed it.

The Eldo's Face Down Brown ale, Crested Butte, Colorado

Coming in I’d noticed a balcony over the sidewalk. “I’m going to sit out there, at least until the thunderstorm hits”, I told Mariah.

The thunderstorm was indeed looming, and though the patio umbrellas threatened to (and in one case did) become airborne, it was a fun place to hang out. I noted the plethora of mountain bikers rolling by, obviously coming from somewhere further upslope where there was clearly no lack of mud on the trails.

I caught up with family and friends by voice calls and texts.

While ultimately it never much more than drizzled it did eventually turn cool enough that returning to the bar felt like the best move.

​I wrote most of this blog while drinking a few more Face Down Browns, then staggered back to the inn.