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Page 8 of 20 Tom is anything but resourceful, and you could almost see his brain working on this dilemma as he slowly approached us. He surprised us all when he made a sudden left turn and calmly approached an older, American Indian-looking man sporting a long, white ponytail riding on a dilapidated bicycle. Although none of us could hear the conversation, Tom charmed him immediately and soon we had our native guide (no pun intended). We were lead to downtown Trinidad, fourteen motorcycles following an aged, impromptu leader, laughing all the way. The residents of Trinidad saw a colorful parade that day, and their appreciation warmed our hearts. Our destination was finally reached and we descended upon a small, homey restaurant that was definitely not prepared for seventeen hungry people, all wearing black. Our adventures were piling up like gaily wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. And we had only been riding for a day and a half! What else lay ahead? We pulled out of Trinidad, said goodbye to our new friends and rumbled back onto the Interstate. Denver was our next obstacle. We had been warned by other experienced riders that Denver traffic was bad - the motorists were aggressive, rude and did not care if you were on two wheels instead of four. It was every man (and woman) for themselves. We entered the outskirts of the mile high city with some trepidation. By now it was Sunday afternoon - the weather had turned cloudy and the sky was threatening. As we approached downtown Denver, the lanes narrowed and the cars crowded our space that was now lined with concrete. The group was forced to split up because of traffic - suddenly, we were alone in a harsh and unforgiving environment. As the 18 wheelers sucked the wind, creating swirling eddies of turbulent air, and the crazed motorists battled for position with our tiny machine, I hung on for dear life and prayed like a convert. With a final twist of the throttle, we were through!
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