The fun and frustration of a big group ride

I'd heard of these guys. A group of Roswell riders known as the Alienators. Doctors, lawyers, bankers and the like -all who earn more than me -- who get together once a year for big ride. Sometimes it's as simple as a jaunt to Las Vegas. Other years they get more adventurous, like going to Alaska. Understandably concerned with their image, they had never seen fit to invite me along. This year, however, I snagged an invitation (probably intended for someone else) and jumped at the chance to tag along.

7:00 a.m. Friday, May 9, McDonalds
Motorcycles - mostly Harleys but with a solid representation of all brands -- filled the parking lot when I arrived. Over the next half hour riders slowly trickled out of the restaurant until critical mass was achieved and the first Harley roared to life. Pretty soon there was so much racket that I couldn't tell if my bike was running or not. Being closest to the exit, I casually turned onto Main Street and headed north. Nobody followed. Vaguely recalling a passage in the pre-ride literature about the mayor leading us out of town, I realized I had committed a serious faux pas. In penitence I let the whole group go by and took my place at the tail end.

Thirty motorcycles look more like a hundred when they're together on the road, and it was seriously cool to see all those bikes stretched out in front of me as we thundered up Main Street and onto the Vaughn-o-bahn. The morning was bright and clear, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

8:30 a.m., Corona
Stopping for gas here was my first experience in group fueling. Nozzles were passed from hand to hand and bike to bike for the best part of a half hour. Two bikes were dropped and a little gas was spilled but the journey was resumed with tanks full and spirits high.

Our destination that day was Durango, via Santa Fe and Chama - about 450 miles. A comfortable day's ride under normal circumstances but the wind had begun to howl and the sky was turning brown. Needing to attend to business in Albuquerque, I broke from the group at Tijeras, intending to catch them in Santa Fe. But I was so delayed that by the time I got to Santa Fe I was convinced the group was at least an hour ahead of me. I rode hard to catch them, doing battle with wind and tumbleweeds all the way to Durango without a seeing a familiar motorcycle.

Friday, 5:35 p.m., Durango
There was not a motorcycle in sight when I wheeled into the Durango motel. Turns out I was way ahead of the group, thanks to some bad luck and the naturally slow pace of a large motorcycle herd. A flat tire had delayed one rider while another was put out of the game when his motorcycle left the road in high winds. Rider OK, but the bike was carried from the field on a stretcher.

Dinner that evening revealed the problems inherent in a feeding a hungry horde of motorcyclists. Table for thirty? At the most popular restaurant in town? On a Friday night? With a soccer tournament in town? That'll be an hour-and-a-half wait.

Saturday, 5:45 a.m., Durango
Originally we planned to spend Saturday night in trendy Aspen, but a freak northern Colorado snowstorm caused us to rethink that itinerary. Springerville, Arizona, via Monument Valley seemed like a safe bet. But after Friday's wind warfare a new consensus emerged: a day ride starting and ending in Durango. So I'm up early for the motel's continental breakfast, ready to hit the road by 8:00 a.m.

Saturday, 8:00 a.m., Durango
Only a handful of riders are up. New plan: to leave at 9:00 a.m.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m., Durango
We saddle-up and hit the road. Wait…we're heading for the local Harley shop. We've got a flat to fix.

Saturday, 10:00 a.m., Durango
We stand around the Harley store for an hour or so. Then everyone gears-up and hops on their bike and we ride off…and pull into a nearby restaurant for breakfast. I'm suffering from a bad case of rider interuptus.

Saturday, 11:15 a.m., Durango
Well, breakfast was pretty good and once we were finally on the road all my frustrations evaporated like rain on a hot muffler. Great ride it was, too. West to Dolores, north to Telluride, south to Ouray and Silverton. Deep snow covered the mountains and the 11,000-foot passes were a winter wonderland. Snaking along the famous Million Dollar Highway was motorcycle nirvana. A big dinner at a lodge on the shores of Vallecito Lake was an outstanding end to fine day.

Sunday, 8:10 a.m., Durango
For some, 300 miles is a full day's ride. Others brag that they can do it before breakfast. So Sunday's ride offered a choice: head directly to Red River or circle north to Creede, Lake City and Gunnison. I was with a group of ten taking the 500-mile scenic route and it was a perfect riding day for everyone - magnificent roads, clear blue skies and the wonderful feel of a motorcycle. And we actually got an early start.

Sunday 10:25 a.m., east of Creed
The lady policeman said we were going 60 in a 45 zone but no one remembers seeing the sign. Unaware of the officer's desire pull us over, three of us elude the mass traffic stop, riding on in blissful ignorance. Warning tickets were handed out while the trio of fugitives waited at a safe distance. The female officer actually posed for a group photo.

Sunday, 6:45 p.m., Red River
Not a car, not a person, not even a dog. Red River looked as if aliens had abducted every living thing and left the town to us. Then we discovered Texas Red's Tavern, which seemed to hold the entire population of Red River as well as the riders from Roswell. The beer flowed like wine, the steaks were tasty and the air was filled with lies and laughter. We posed in a corner of the pool room for the compulsory group photo then told jokes on the way back to our motel rooms.

Monday, 8:30 a.m.
Snapshots were taken, addresses exchanged and good-byes spoken as the thirty broke into smaller groups that made their way back to the Alien City, or other ultimate destination. Saturday morning I was ready to swear off group rides forever, but now I was a convert. Big groups may be ponderous at times, but new friends and great memories are well worth the trouble. Put me down for next year.