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The Vintage 1000: Day 3
Day 3:
We didn’t start the day with coffee. We didn’t start the day with breakfast. We didn’t even start the day with dry clothes. Day 3 started with a very important phone call.
I woke from my tent and wandered towards my bike, grabbing the clothes I laid out to dry overnight. I couldn’t tell if they were damp or just cold - hard to tell while still half asleep, and the cozy sleeping bag I just left wasn’t a good reference. I was cautiously optimistic as I gathered my boots. I reached inside to pull out the newspaper stuffing and my eyes closed instantly. Soaked. I gave myself 3 seconds to think about how much that was gonna suck and turned my attention elsewhere.
My friends were already huddled around Benjamin’s bike. I grabbed a quart of oil from the support truck and walked over. The bike sputtered to life briefly the night before, but it sounded terrible… We were hopeful it would quiet down with fresh oil (the proper amount this time). We weren’t so lucky. A few hefty kicks brought the engine to life, but the noises made it clear the piston was too far gone.
We called a friend and asked if he was willing to tow a parts bike from the shop in Colorado Springs to our next campsite in Lake City. With spotty cell service, we’d be leaving early that morning on hopes that his answer would be yes. Day 3’s route was significantly shorter than the first 2 days - only 50 miles - but we were warned that it’d make the “hard route” from Day 2 seem like a cake walk. I finished a coffee, repacked my wet clothes, and threw a leg over my bike with anticipation.
We pulled out of camp and onto a few miles of twisting, open highway through the San Juan mountains. If I wasn’t awake from that cup of coffee, I certainly was from the wind piercing my damp clothes at 60mph. If I knew what the rest of the day held, I would’ve cherished that highway a little more… because we traded smooth, paved lanes for a rocky, rutted trail mere minutes later.
60mph in 5th gear went down to a crawl in 1st and 2nd gear… from sitting comfortably in the saddle to standing on the bike riding over boulders and slabs of erupting rock for 10 miles. My arms grew tired, my legs weak, and my brain sloshed around in my skull at every obstacle. It was the longest 10 miles of the trip so far, but it felt good to ride through something more challenging than dirt, gravel, and mud.
We regrouped at the end of the trail and carved through one of my favorite roads in Colorado: Route 550, “the Million Dollar Highway”. If you’ve never been, put it on your list. Nothing I write here will do it justice… but it got the name for a reason. A gas stop followed suit, and I filled my Camelbak with Blue Powerade before we were back on the dirt. We bombed down some washboard road, passing Jeeps and trucks along the way, until we reached the fork for Cinnamon Pass.
The trail to the top of the pass was more of those same jutting rocks, monolithic slabs, and loose dust. The only difference being we were above tree-line at this point, so there was no disguising how far the fall would be if you made a mistake. We worked up the mountain like mules. I dropped my bike on the steepest part of the trail and ended up testing my cardio, 1 rep max deadlift, and patience. A couple squirrelly maneuvers and clever saves kept us from any major incidents. We summited the pass - sweating, but stoked on the panoramic views and the fact we lugged 45 year old bikes up to 12,460 feet.
I looked through our group of vintage, outdated bikes parked at the summit… surrounded by brand new motorcycles and side by sides. There’s something ethereal about doing things the hard way. The analog way. I don’t think I’m superior for it, but I personally feel more accomplished knowing it took more sacrifice. I asked more of myself in order to end up at the same point as someone else. To some, that’s just stupidity… Wasted energy, inefficiency, extra steps. To me, it just sits better in my brain. That’s part of the reason I love fly fishing so much. Putting yourself at a disadvantage… handing yourself more of a challenge… that’s the fun. There are undoubtedly easier, more efficient ways to catch fish. Fishermen in third world countries are not relying on fly rods to survive. If they were, the saying would probably change to “Give a man a fish, he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, he’ll eat for a lifetime. Teach a man to fly fish, he’ll starve to death.” A fly angler’s goal is not the fish, it’s the process of pursuit. I’ve found that pursuit on the river, and I found it riding my antiquated motorcycle to the top of the San Juan mountains. Funny how such vastly different activities will lead you to the same headspace.
I put my fishing daydreams on hold as we geared up to descend the mountain. We reached our campsite with perfect timing. As we unloaded the bikes, a grey Jeep, with a half-naked Honda XL500 in tow, pulled up. That 7:30am call came through. We were thrilled Benjamin’s bike now had a chance of rejoining us on the road. We weren’t so thrilled when we realized it meant spending the rest of the day swapping engines in a campground.
Work started without hesitation for the other 3, but I had different plans. Tonight’s campsite was near a creek. On Day 0, I stashed my fly rod in the support truck… I wasn’t gonna spend 5 days in Colorado without my favorite tool. I rigged up my rod and bushwhacked to the creek. Light packing meant I was fishing in flip flops, without polarized glasses, and with only a handful of dry flies. I wandered up and down the creek. Water was low, I didn’t see a single fish, and my only catch was a willow branch… but it felt so damn good to stand there, casting loops in crystal clear water. That creek rushed over my feet until they turned numb, and it was one of the few times I walked away not caring that I got skunked.
I rejoined Benjamin, Patrick, and David to help with the engine swap. Rusty bolt by rusty bolt, we took the bikes apart as the rain set in. We truly didn’t even know if this engine would work. It was David’s spare bike, he’d heard it run once (months ago) and had been scavenging parts off of it in preparation for this ride… but it was the only shot we had. A one hour job turned into an all night affair. Neither of these engines had ever been removed… so we battled through 46 years of grime, rust, and corrosion. We used every wrench available… hammers… torches… angle grinders… and a drill. One of those situations where it’s so shitty and frustrating that it becomes comical.
I felt comfortable despite the frustration, though, because I’d stripped my own bike to the bare frame in the months leading up to this. I was ready for it. I knew every disassembly and reassembly step. I paid my dues by doing it alone. In the face of the same challenge… this time with the help of other people… I didn’t have an ounce of doubt, fear, or hesitation. That felt good.
Prepare and practice harder than you need to. When “game day” comes, it won’t feel so big. It’s just another walk in the park.
We finished swapping the engines, under the glow of headlamps, around 11pm. An 8 hour ordeal.
Three of us went to bed when there was no more work to be done. Benjamin slept most of the night next to the bike, underneath a pine tree. All four of us anxiously waited for the sun to come up… waiting to see if the night’s labor would pay off.
Tracy Lawrence said it best.
To be continued. Thanks for reading.
I’m feeling pangs of jealousy, just like a fellow masochist fly angler should 😉
Such a rad story!