A Cold and Lonely Road

It was 12 years ago today that I stopped for the night in Austin, Nevada unaware that the next day would be the most challenging, miserable and terrifying ride of my life... Now, I cherish every minute of the memory.

I was alone, atop my 2002, BMW R1200C Phoenix, Christened Frauless, on the "Loneliest Road in America," Hwy 50, from Sacramento, California on my way back home to Colorado Springs, Colorado. It was day 14 of a 16-day road trip that had taken me by Great Sand Dunes National Park, over the Western Slope, across the Hoover Dam, through Las Vegas and the Mojave Desert, into Los Angeles. I rode up California’s Highway 1 where I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time then through San Francisco and finally to Sacramento before I started heading east again.

It was a nice night in Austin. I had a beer and a bite to eat at the only cafe in this one-horse town but regretted my decision to stop here for the night when I saw the weather report on the evening news. A winter storm warning had been issued along my entire path back to Colorado starting late the next morning.

I got an early start the next day hoping to put some miles between me and the coming storm. Though I started east with sun and a temperature in the low 50s, the storm caught me just before I scooted into Ely, cold and wet. I was in such a hurry to get to someplace warm and dry for a few minutes, that I took a rare blind curve on 50 at about 90 mph only to meet a trooper traveling in the westbound lane. He had me cold... literally. I eased off the throttle and slid over to the gravely side of the road even before the trooper turned on his lights and turned around. Guess he felt sorry for me because he just let me go.

"Slow it down and get there alive," he said. I told him that was good advice and thanked him. I’m sure that would have been a costly ticket had he given me one.

It was cold and rainy in Ely and I needed some hot food and drink, so I stopped. I kept my eye on the weather maps hoping to catch a hole in the storm before trying to cross the Snake Range into Utah, but as I sat there in that hard booth, staring out the window and sipping on my fifth cup of coffee, it only got worse. The rain started to get thicker and chunkier and as I waited, turned to big, half-dollar flakes of snow with the forecast calling for a foot of the white stuff. I had two choices - either go now, or get stuck in Ely for days.

I put on every stitch of clothing I had with me, put my unhappy ass in the saddle and started the 70-mile climb over the Snake Range on 50 between Windy Peak and Mount Moriah. The temperature was in the mid 30s at the summit and near white out conditions. My rain gear kept my body mostly dry, but my boots and gloves were soaked, and I was freezing. I frequently needed to wipe snow and ice from my face shield and struggled to keep the bike upright and between the barely visible yellow centerline and the icy guardrails blocking rocky drop-offs while my front tire plowed through two inches of slush. Certainly not ideal conditions for a cruiser.

Once over the range, I dropped into Utah’s high desert where the temp jumped up to a dry 50 degrees feeling practically tropical compared to what I had just been through. The Snake Range slowed the storm for about half a day, so I was able to rest in Utah for the night. After a warm meal and a good night’s sleep, the next day I put away the quickest 500 miles in the saddle back to Colorado Springs with that same storm licking my heals the whole way.

Experiences like this try a biker’s mettle but the intoxication of the ride compels them to persevere. I’ve suffered much in the saddle over the years, but every challenge makes the reward that much sweeter.