The next morning I headed "West young man!" Into Kansas, the most boring scenery but the most rest rooms in the country so far. Every fifty miles a small oasis of humanity existed for the casual traveler.

Upon one such stop I discovered several books I had brought. J.R.R. Tolkien's trilogy "The Lord of the Rings" and started into them. A fantasy world unfolded with Frodo and the leather footed hobbit who had a life quest for the ring, of which magical powers would be bestowed to it's owner. If I stopped at one, I stopped at twenty rest areas and recoiled underneath a tree with these books.

Nearing Colorado I ran upon two fellow Triumph bikers from Kansas City. A Tiger and a three cylinder monster, Trident. We instantly bonded with stories of mechanics and journeys. They were amazed to see someone in Kansas with Florida plates. I was happy to see another friendly biker who knew about Triumphs.

"Headed to Denver on a two week vacation to visit old friends and a new country." they said. "You're welcome to joins us." they added. I was elated to be in the company of other bikers and we sped on into the night towards Denver.

As night dew near we stopped in a small town where these folks said they knew a place to stay for free. It was an old wooden hotel in what used to be a mining town. We found a tavern where the locals went and ordered up round after round of Coors beer.  They did not sell this Colorado brew east of the Mississippi river and it was always a fascination with Florida folks.

With little food and a lot of ride under my feet, I quickly succumbed to sleep. My new friends found their friend, who was re-furbishing a hotel downtown. Since it was not yet opened to the public, he invited us to stay the night for free. This gut looked like Charles Bronson and led us down a narrow hallway to dimly lit rooms with gaping holes in them. Don't worry about the holes he said, I'm putting bathrooms in. Inside one lone room with a double bed, I couldn't take it anymore. I crawled up into a corner by the fireplace and went sound asleep.

Early the next morning I was awoken by the kick of a boot. At least I was alive. We ate breakfast with Charles Bronson and made tracks for Denver. We were starting to trust each other for the first time.

Night and rain came as we stayed the course of our closely knit pact. Stopping to phone their hosts, we finally made it to a small house inside the city limits.

The man and woman met my new friends on the porch with hugs and escorted us into the garage out back. We ran down the steps into the cellar where we stood dripping wet and shivering from cold. Our hosts brought us steaming bowls of chili and frosted mugs of Coors beer. I almost wept. We stayed up late while I listened to the many stories they had about growing up together. The world was getting smaller.

Brave souls that we were, we headed out in the morning rain. Passing someone scaling a cliff-side we went up into the Rocky Mountains. In the late afternoon we collectively decided to traverse a dirt road up a small peak and find a squatter's camping ground. One mile later we exited the road into a beautiful surrounding of small trees and meadow grass. We set up our tents and cooked a fine cowboy meal of beans and franks. We stayed up after dark telling stories and roasting marshmallows on the fire. Alas, we all three crept into our tents, to sleep the night away.

The morning was silent and crisp. I slept in all my clothes including an Air Force flight jacket. My tent was a camel special ( not the cigarette) with three sides and no floor. I untied the doorway and was aghast at the sight. Six inches of snow rested on top of my motorcycle's gas tank.

"Hey! Are you guys alive?" I yelled. Muffled laughter was my only response. "I'm making coffee" followed. I could not remember being so cold in my life. Luckily my new friends were prepared for the cold. They had full length body suits of warmth and cans of sterno. The coffee never tasted so good, and so bland. It was good for warmth but I was too numb to taste it. We packed up camp and started our bikes in the decent down the mountain.

Unfortunately Triumph motorcycles have very narrow clearances between the front wheel and the fender. Doubly unfortunate the fenders are made so well that the mud from the snowy dirt clogged up my wheel and made it into a sort of ball bearing. I was the second to slide to the edge of the roadside cliff, lay down the bike and dangle over the edge of a 500 foot demise. We all took turns rescuing each other.

The next fifty miles along beautiful mountain roads over looking gorges of granite were very raw. We had to wipe the snow off our helmet visors every two seconds and keep a steady eye on the snow covered road to avoid careening off the big one.

Finally reaching a general store and gas station, my snow suited buddies stopped while I circled the gas pumps. My lower self had been covered only by cotton jeans for the last two hours and my knees would not straighten up to help me stop the bike. Seven circles later I slowed enough to stop and hold myself against a pole. My friends saw the dilemma, positioned the kickstand and carried me into the store. We made a collective decision to go straight south as soon as possible.

Down from the mountains was effortless compared to our previous trials. We went from 20 degrees to 90 in less than eight hours. My friends needed to head back home and I was determined to press west. We parted near New Mexico as I plotted a course towards the Grand Canyon. The desert felt so good as it warmed my bones.

Next Stop: The Desert

Previous Stop: Chicago