Fort Collins

     I put the finishing touches on my dirt bike at about 1:30 pm July 2nd.
      May 7th at the Yucca Hills race I had left the air boot clamp loose on a very dusty day. By the time I noticed it, the damage was done. The motor ran for three more races but at North Platte on the 18th of June she gave out taking the crank, mains, rod and piston. $450.00 in parts with a brand new upgraded crank/rod assembly from the factory or $380.00 to go with my old crank rebuilt. I wisely opted for the new crank. The only problem was that the new rod was just a smidge larger on the bottom for greater strength. A good thing except that my right case half had a casting defect that didn't affect the old crank, but the new assembly would not spin freely once the jug and piston were in place. Consequently, I had to split the cases again and machine the defect out. After three stressful episodes of splitting and reassembling the cases to get everything just right, a job that should have taken about 6 hours had eaten up the better part of a week. I was sick of working on motorcycles!
     In the opposite corner of the garage sat my street bike, packed and ready for a three day excursion to the Rocky Mountains via Fort Collins. I had hoped to leave by 2:00 pm. I took the racing bike for a quick test drive and except for a few minor details she seemed OK.
     Unfortunately, I would be traveling alone. Though I begged Kristin to go, she felt she should stay home as work was a little weird that week. Underhanded tactics were employed by routing the trip through Ft. Collins where her mom had just recently moved. We plan on getting married and starting a family in a few short weeks and I knew they'd have lots to talk about.   My feelings were a little hurt that she didn't go, as were hers because I didn't stay. I gave her a quick call and said I'd stop and say good bye. Then I was off. Our meeting was a little tense as we both had hoped to spend the next few days together, but it was time for me to roll.
    I headed West out of Kearney on the Lincoln Highway stopping at Gothemburg for gas and then at Ole's Big Game Bar in Paxton, where I had performed the night before. My forearms were getting too much sun and even though it was at least 100 degrees, I had to put on long sleeves.   I ate quickly at the bar in Paxton while a wild bunch at a table behind me played a violent card game called spoons. I thought they were going to tear the place down! Barb got out the atlas and showed me how to get to Horse Tooth Reservoir just above Fort Collins.
     I could see the heat rising off the asphalt as I pulled back out on 'Dirty Thirty' and made haste to Sterling, Colorado where I filled up again.    Some other cyclists were taking a break also and I talked to them for a few minutes as they topped off their tanks. On the way out of town, an old guy pulled up beside me on a late 70's Yamaha and was curious about my fuel mileage. "40 mpg if you drive 60." I said "25 if you drive 90." "That's better than I get on this thing." he returned.
     The sign on Highway 14 said 100 miles to Fort Collins. My plan was to get gas there and head up Poudre Canyon in search of a campsite by the river, spend the next day getting hopelessly lost in the mountains and camping again wherever I could pitch a tent, then find my way back home on day three. I had two hours of daylight and a lonely stretch of blacktop in front of me. Time to put the hammer down.
     Doin' about 90, I was feeling pretty tough when this mini-van starts gaining on me from behind. In no time it was passing me and I looked over to see a 70 year old lady at the wheel. When she got in front of me I was astounded to see that the damn thing had handicap plates. There's my front door. I opened it up but my bike is no sport bike. It'll only do about 105. And besides, I kinda like to slow down when I'm cresting a hill or meeting a car. Not this chick. I hung with her for about 70 miles but finally had to let her go. The pressure was too much to handle. Besides I'm almost there.
     It was close to sunset when I approached a small town about 15 miles from Ft. Collins. I could smell the mountains sprawled out in front of me. I could almost hear the Poudre River running just a few short yards from my tent. I was getting excited. "AULT   A Unique Little Town" the sign said. I slowed down for the railroad tracks and when I went over them, it happened. Thump... Kachunk.. Kachunk.. Kachunk.. Kerclank.. psssssss. A bolt had punctured my rear tire. I quickly pulled over and looked to be sure then got back on and hurried to the nearest convenience store and parked next to the air hose.

Inside the store they had a decent selection of tire fixes so I bought a can of that fix-a-flat stuff and put it in my tire. After a 5 minute drive to get the stuff sloshed around it was still leaking, so I sat on the curb wondering what my chances of getting into Ft. Collins were.
About 10 minutes later, Roy pulled up on his bike, asked if he could help and offered the use of his garage. I followed him to his very nice, well equipped shop. Then he let me take his bike back to the convenience store where I had seen some patches next to the fix-a-flat. The plan was to take the tire off and patch it, but now I saw some tire plugs in the tire repair section and bought those also. Back at Roy's place, his son Dusty had joined the party and we both thought that a plug would do for now and quickly fixed the tubeless tire. They showed me some great roads to ride when I got to the mountains and I was off. Thank you Roy and Dusty

It was too late now to find a campsite in the mountains so I was happy to find a real nice hotel room for $35 in town and started my search for the brew pubs. My quest ended when I took a wrong turn and accidentally ended up in the old town square where the first open parking space I came upon was in front of Linden's Brewery.
In my element, I sat down by two great guys that treated me like an old friend, listened to a great band and sipped some tasty brew.
Then it was back to the Hotel.

The next morning I rose to look out the window and see that my tire was still up. So I got the bike loaded and went down to Coopersmith's brew pub for Dinner before heading South to Loveland and then West up toward Estes Park. The first ten miles out of Loveland were so beautiful that I decided to turn around and drive back down through it. About halfway back, I heard the depressing sound of my tire releasing air again. On the side of a shoulder-less, busy mountain highway I stopped and put my last plug in the tire and aired it up with my spare can of fix-a-flat. There had been a NAPA store on the way out of town so I made for it. They told me to go to Broadmoor 66 across the street. I met Ron who informed me that my tire would not hold a plug with that fix-a-flat in it. I would have to take the tire off and clean it out. He kindly let me use his tools and a spot on his driveway and said he'd patch the tire if I got it off. You have to about tear the whole rear end of the bike apart to get the tire off so after two hours of sweating in the 100 degree heat out on a pad of cement I finally handed Ron the tire.

"I have to watch the front of the store" said Ron " but that guy over their at the propane station will patch it as soon as he gets done filling that customers little tank. It should be about 5 minutes." Cool, I'll be back on the road in no time. Well maybe. Right about then, Broadmoor 66 had a run on propane and every person within 60 miles needed to have their tank filled now. I would never have thought that so many people could show up at one time to get their propane tanks filled. I didn't know that that many people still used the stuff! Young girls, elderly ladies, yuppies, fishermen, even a mountain man with 6 big tanks to fill. So I just sat in the shade of a nearby tree and watched in amazement while the people came and went for about an hour and then I finally got my tire patched. Since I knew what I was doing now, it only took an hour to get the bike back together. Thanks a million to Ron and Larry and the other guys at Broadmoor 66 for your help.