- 173400 km on the bike

It is raining cats and dogs next morning, and continues for hours. I haven't had a break day in quite a while, so I decide to have one today. I walk to the reception to pay for the room for a second day. Inside are several local people, and I have never seen so many people smile so much about such bad weather. Rain is regarded as a rare wonder here - I don't dare to tell them that for me its rather a nuisance.
I have a lazy brunch and watch two movies at the nearby cinema: The Bourne Ultimatum and Stardust. Both movies are currently rated well over 8 points on the IMDB, but I am not overly impressed with either of them. Once more seasoned movie buffs have watched them, I am sure they will disappear into the mediocre ranks where they belong.

Next morning the sun is shining out of a clear, blue sky. The surrounding countryside already looks much greener thanks to yesterdays rain.
One of my usual checks is of course for the tyre pressure. This morning I need no gauge to see that the front tyre is flat. I thoroughly check the tyre for any foreign object that might have punctured it. As expected, I find none. Knowing what kind of guys actually fitted the tubes and tyres in Calgary I am not surprised about the flattie. I'm probably lucky that it held together for 13000 km.
Having a faulty front tyre on a motorbike is very dangerous. If the tyre fails at highway speeds, a serious accident is inevitable. I need to know what kind of problem I am having. Luckily there is a petrol station next door where I re-inflate the tyre to the correct pressure of 36 psi. Then I slowly drive five miles and check the pressure. It is down by maybe one pound. I now have to enter Interstate 15 north due to the lack of alternative highways. I exit after another 30 miles. Now the pressure is down to 33 pounds. So I have a slow leak. That should be fixable. At Cedar City I leave the Interstate and search for a petrol station with an air hose that will fit to motorbikes. As many of you who are bikers themselves know, plenty of petrol stations these days feature solid metal valve connectors, purely designed with cars in mind. Motorbikers frequently can't get these things to work, because either the wheel spokes or the disc brakes are in the way.
The second place I try has the good, old rubber hose job. I completely deflate my front tyre and then attach the can of tyre sealant to the valve. I bought this can on day one in Canada, and ever since then the can has been inside my right pannier, waiting exactly for something like this to happen.
I pump the sealant into the inner tube, then drive a few miles to distribute the sealant throughout the tube. Afterwards I return to the petrol station and inflate the tyre to the correct 36 psi. Pampered European bikers might think that in America they have the same luxurious, gauge equipped and free-of-charge air hoses like in Europe. Unfortunately it isn't so over here. If you are lucky, then they have a grimy air hose without any of those elaborate inflate or deflate buttons. And no gauge either. And if you need to add air, then you usually have to insert about 75 cents into that contraption to fire it up. Then you have three minutes in which to perform what I call the "wheel dance"; attach the hose to the first tyre and press it onto the valve for a few seconds. Remove hose and check tyre pressure with your own, personal gauge. If not enough pressure yet, then repeat the process. A car driver wanting to do a proper job has to perform this dance for his four tyres and then for the spare in the boot - all in under three minutes. If the US department of transportation wonders why so many accidents happen over here due to tyre failure caused by under-inflation, then they should watch their citizens doing this wheel dance, and then come to Europe and see how we do these things.

The tyre sealant appears to do the job all right, but I will know for sure only tomorrow morning when I check the pressure.
The road by now has climbed to 6000 feet and stays there. Up here the ride is quite comfortable and not too hot. But all around me there are new thunderstorms forming and the sky ahead looks somewhat threatening.

At Salina I leave the Interstate and have lunch at a very nice place called Mom's restaurant. I normally try to avoid places that have names like this, but all the locals recommend it as the best place to eat - and they are right, the food is delicious.
At the NAPA store across the street I buy a replacement for the used tyre sealant can - if I don't do that straight away, Murphy's law dictates that my rear tyre will develop a puncture within hours.
From Salina onwards I ride north on highway 89. All around me above the mountains large thunderstorms have formed. Spectacular lightning is going on. Luckily so far my route led through the valleys and away from the storms. But at Fairview Sally, my GPS, directs me directly up the mountain flank into one of these giant storm cells. No, thanks, not for me. After 400 km I seek shelter at the Skyview motel instead.

- 173900 km on the bike

Next morning the sun shines out of a deep blue sky again and nothing is left of yesterdays storms. I set out at 9.30 am into the La Sal National forest. The road winds up to 2700 meters and the views are fantastic. Tranquil lakes, pine forests and a winding road are all that is required to put me into biker heaven.

Far too soon do I reach the far side at Huntington, where I turn north onto state route 10 towards Price. This is Carbon County, and that name is well chosen, because coal mining and coal burning power plants are plentiful around here.
Soon I reach highway 191, heading northeast towards Duchesne. The countryside gets rapidly more and more arid, as you can see in this picture:

At Duchesne I turn eastwards on highway 40 towards Roosevelt. After a quick lunch there I head on to the last outpost of civilization for a long time, the town of Vernal. I fill up the tank and ride on, finally crossing the state line into Colorado. The first town here is Dinosaur. Eight miles after passing this little hamlet I hear a muffled bang and within a millisecond my front tyre collapses.
Yesterday I mused about the dangers of a front tyre collapsing at 65 miles per hour, today I can report that it is a rather hairy experience. The steering bar immediately behaves like a bull at a rodeo. I can't use the front brakes, so I have to ride this Tiger turned Rodeo bull for even longer before I come to a standstill.

Luckily the tyre stayed on the rim and looks undamaged. I am in the middle of nowhere here. The last sizeable town was Vernal, 50 miles to the west. That I have just driven past that signpost pictured on the right does not make matters any better. About half a mile back I can see the roof of a lonely farmhouse. I turn the bike around and hobble on that flat tyre to the farm. There are some large trees there, which at least give some shade. I have a look around the place; except for a trio of guard dogs it seems to be entirely deserted.
Well, it is just 4.00 pm, I have one gallon of drinking water, it is nice and warm here and I also have all the time in the world.
I think I might call upon the next biker that zooms past. There is also a stack of mail boxes in front of this farm, so sooner or later someone might come along to collect his letters.
I take a seat in the shade and get out my pipe - there is nothing else to do. After a few minutes I hear the distinct sound of two Harley engines. But having just one look at the bikers makes me decide to let them go. I don't want to have to join the Hells Angels and replace Kitty for a Harley to get out of this fix.
Half an hour later a Dodge Durango stops at the letterboxes. I have a word with the driver. Her name is Lindsay, and she promises to ride home and make a few phone calls, then come back and let me know the outcome.

Another hour later the farm owner arrives. Her name is Leona. I explain what has happened. She phones Lindsay to see what progress has been made. She invites me inside to sit at her garden patio. We discuss the possibilities and finally agree that the best plan of action would be for me to remove the front wheel of my bike with her husbands tools, drive with her to her cafe in Dinosaur tomorrow and phone around to see if there is a dealership around that can fit a new inner tube.

She also offers me to stay overnight in their brand new caravan that sits at the rear of the farm. That is extremely generous.

- 174300 km on the bike

Next morning we set out at 7.30 am to her place, the Bedrock Depot, in Dinosaur. She has asked me yesterday to add a German translation to her menu, as lots of Germans visit the place. To my surprise that takes me until noon. Then I phone a large motorcycle dealership in Vernal, and yes, they have the proper inner tube replacement in stock and are willing to fix my problem right away this afternoon.
Leona borrows me her Chevy MPV (now, would you do this to a total stranger who just stranded outside your home 12 hours earlier?) and at 2 pm I set out back the way I came. Just over an hour later I am at the dealership, and within 30 minutes I receive the properly inflated wheel back. Great! I pay 30 bucks for the job, and by 6.30 pm my bike is resting on two sound tyres again.

Next morning I say goodbye to my two generous hosts, Leona and her husband Robert, and hit the road at 11 pm. It is clear from the outset that the day will end with thunderstorms, the clouds are already bubbling up at noon. Well, I will ride as long as I can, but thunderstorms here in the desert can be very dangerous. Even if they occur miles away, otherwise dry creeks may fill within minutes and flood nearby roads. By the time I am past Steamboat Springs the sky looks like this:

I decide not to stop, as it is not even 3 pm, so soon I have to put on my raingear. But that is no problem, as I am now in the Routt National forest, and the road winds up to 2900 meters. Once out of the forest, but still at 2600 meters, I turn north-east onto state route 14 towards Walden. I decide to ride on for a bit longer. 12 miles beyond Walden I hear that by now familiar muffled bang again, and the front tyre collapses once again while I am doing over 100 kilometers per hour. Like the last time, I manage with profound difficulties to bring the bike to a halt without any mishap.
I think I can call myself now some kind of an expert on blown out tyres after having the same tyre deflating for the second time in two days. But here I am not near a farm. This is the total outback, and even getting back to the tiny hamlet of Walden is impossible. I suppose it is needless to say, that a black wall of clouds with thunder and plenty of lightning is slowly moving in on me from the west.
I have time to think about what must have happened: there must be a spoke from the wheel poking inside the tyre, puncturing the inner tubes. Or some damage on the tyre itself is chafing the tube. In any case, the guy who repaired the damage yesterday just couldn't be bothered to check for the cause of the problem. He just put in a new inner tube, job done, have a nice day. It becomes more and more obvious that the majority of craftsmen in this part of the world are just incompetent morons, or, as they say in England, "cowboys".
I am about to get my pipe out and prepare myself to be engulfed in the deluge that is approaching from the west, when two Pick-Up trucks stop at the same time next to me. Three guys step out and enquire what is wrong. I show them what is wrong. They offer me a lift into Walden. That is mighty nice of them, but how can we put 800 pounds of motorbike onto their truck? But with quite impressive pioneer spirit, they find some wooden planks in a ditch nearby, move one of the trucks to an embankment, so that we can easily move Kitty onto the truck.

The chaps have one tie-down strap and I have the two from my baggage roll, so we manage to secure the bike on the truck. Then they drive me and my bike back to Walden. All three strictly refuse any payment for their rescue services, claiming that they were about to go bowhunting, but that it was raining anyway at their destination, so they claim to have not missed out on anything.
I hobble on my flat-footed bike to a motel nearby, where I get their second-last room, and manage to get the bike under its cover just before it starts to rain.
I soon realize that I have another big problem; this weekend is Labour day weekend, i. e. next Monday is a bank holiday nationwide. This is also the weekend where the bowhunting season starts out here. Which simply means that today is Friday, and no workshop will be open before next Tuesday. And all motels and hotels in Walden are booked solid for tomorrow and Sunday night, not a single room is available in the entire town.
I have to find a way to either fix my tube problem tomorrow or find some place to hole up for the weekend and next Monday. How I am going to do that I have no idea. I can't move the bike, there are no rooms beyond tonight and I have also to find the cause of this multiple tyre blowout before I can even think of going anywhere else.

- 174600 km on the bike

The motel receptionist, a lady named Babbie, has volunteered to drive me to the nearest motorbike dealership, providing that I can find one that has another new inner tube in stock and pay for the petrol. I do find a Harley dealer in Steamboat Springs who has one in stock. We leave at 9.30. It is a 120 mile round trip, but we manage to be back at the motel before noon. There is also a local mechanic at work just 100 yards from the motel. I hobble my flat-footed bike to his place. We agree that I will do the work myself using his tools, as he is far too busy to do it for me.
The mechanics name is Brian and he is a very friendly and helpful chap. He doesn't have any machines for tyre fitting, so I'll have to do it all manually. With the help of two prybars I remove the tyre and have a look at the old inner tube to see what caused the second blowout. The diagnosis is quite simple; after the first blowout I drove that half mile to Leona's farmhouse. Of course some dirt and debris entered the tyre when doing so. That brainless ape who fitted the replacement tube just couldn't be bothered to clean out the inside of the tyre or the rim. A piece of debris chafed directly on the running surface of the tyre against the tube and finally blew it - less than 200 miles after the "repair".
It is obvious that if I want to have anything relating to motorbikes done to Swiss standards on this continent, then I will have to do the job myself.
It takes me three hours to wash out and blow-dry the tyre, check every square inch of the inside to ensure that there are no foreign objects left in it, clean the rim inside until it is spotless, put in a new rim band and refit the tyre with the new tube.

At 2.30 pm I say goodbye to Brian and Babbie and hit the road. Highway 14 heads straight for the Roosevelt National Forest and the road rapidly climbs to well over 10000 feet (3000 meters)

The scenery is spectacular, though my original plan was of course to be out of the mountains before the long bank holiday weekend starts. Now I have to pay the price for these unwanted delays; the weekend warriors are out in force, creeping through the mountains with smoking brakes at 30 miles per hour. But I nonetheless enjoy those 110 miles to Fort Collins, where I get myself a room at the local EconoLodge.
After this successful solution of yesterdays problem, I pop out to a bottle store and get me a bottle of local beer, called Fat Tire (I am sure they mean tyre, but don't know how to spell it correctly...) to celebrate the hopefully final fix to my tyre problem. The beer is excellent and is brewed in this town. If you follow the link on the left and you live outside the United States, then I suppose you do not need to wait until you find the first grey hairs on your head before entering their website.

- 174750 km on the bike

It is about a 70 mile ride from Fort Collins eastwards along state highway 14 to my turnoff north onto state highway 71. The road leads mainly through the open prairie of the Pawnee National Grassland. Ever since the dust bowl of the 1930's this entire area is completely deserted. Cars come along here maybe one every 20 minutes - even on this bank holiday weekend hardly anybody drives along this lonely road.
At a railway crossing a coal train trundles along. 225 carriages, each loaded with 23 tons of coal - over 5100 tons of payload altogether. No wonder they put four locomotives to the train, two pulling up front and two pushing at the rear.

Everything is just bigger here. After a couple of miles on highway 71 I reach the state line and enter Nebraska. This state is certainly not known for its exciting scenery, but it is excellent for making some mileage, which I really want to do after all those delays due to incompetent motorbike mechanics.

At Gering I have my lunch at a Chinese restaurant called China House. This place wants to get into the top 100 Chinese restaurants in the USA. I have to say, the food is really excellent, but the place has the flair of a railway station waiting room, the local clientele behaves like hooligans at a soccer game, the loo could seriously do with a revamp and they don't warm the crockery - I fear that even in the culinarily unsophisticated United States some more effort is required to make the top 100.

Thunderstorms are building up when I leave the restaurant and take the old Oregon Trail back to my mapped route, crossing the North Platte River on the way. North of the town two big storms are unloading lots of rain - but the highway runs exactly in between the two, so I don't get more than a few drops.
Soon I turn onto highway 385, which leads me out of the panhandle and into South Dakota.
My original plan was to stay overnight in Hot Springs, but I can see from far away that a massive thunderstorm is brewing directly over the town.

For this reason I divert to Rapid City instead and get a room at the Super 8 motel. The proximity to Mount Rushmore costs 20 dollars more than a "normal" Super 8 room - 80 bucks in total. My original plans were to actually visit those four stoned presidents, but as it is a bank holiday weekend I will give them a miss, as the place is too crowded for my liking.

- 175350 km on the bike

I leave Rapid City at 10 am westwards to pick up my original route near Silver City. I pick up highway 385 again and continue my ride north.

Soon I reach the state line to North Dakota. While taking above picture a Ducati roars past, doing probably twice the legal speed of 65 mph. I ride on at my usual speed of 55 to 60 mph. Five miles onwards the Ducati is parked off the road - in front of a state troopers police car.

The altitude slowly decreases to under 700 meters and it gets fairly warm. But about every 90 minutes I pass another degree latitude north, until I have finally reached the North Dakota Badlands.

The nearest sizeable village is Watford City. The word "City" should not be taken too seriously out here, it was probably more the wishful thinking of the town fathers. The local convenience store sells pizza, so I have an early diner there and the "Four Eyes" motel provides all mod-cons for 40 bucks. The motel is run by the local chief of police. I'd expect this village to be a peace haven for law enforcement officers, but he tells me about a couple of local 187 cases, that would make a great Hollywood script.
As usual you can download my route and tracklogs from Colorado to North Dakota here.

- 175850 km on the bike

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