Steamboat Springs & Denver
24 April 2024
Like Telluride as few weeks ago and Jackson Hole earlier in the week, Steamboat Springs is fundamentally a ski resort but one operating on an industrial scale.
Like some European resorts, the town provides an excellent free bus service that runs bang on time to get the punters in from the edge of town (where my motel is) to where they can spend some money.
The route snakes through endless apartment developments. How big is the ski area to cope with the 500,000 plus visitors they get every year even though the town has a permanent population of only 13,000?
150 kilometres of piste is the answer. 50% more than my beloved Obergurgl which hets fewer than 100,000 visitors each year and has a population of under 400.
My guess is the queues must be horrendous and even though the lift passes are ‘only’ $47 a day, that’s really expensive if you only get to do one or two runs.
This mass-market US skiing product variant is probably the only version I could stretch to and it’s not particularly appealing. I have no photographs of Steamboat Springs which is another way of saying the same thing.
The Old Town Tavern doesn’t seem very old but they have an IPA from Telluride that is particularly splendid so I have a couple and run up a $14 bar bill before asking to pay.
My last remaining credit card is refused and I only have $10 cash on me. A frantic call to Natwest reveals they have blocked it - without telling me - for all ‘swiped’ transactions. I'm told I must use my PIN or tap for each transaction. While this might be commonplace in Europe, it isn’t here.
I protest, explaining that the general custom in the US is for the merchant to take your card, then present a slip for signing to which you add the obligatory gratuity. I’m assured that ‘Scheme Rules’ mean that EVERY merchant now has a Chip & PIN terminal as a minimum, so I’ll need to insist on doing this from now on.
Fair enough. At least this Natwest person was empathetic and pragmatic. I go back to the bar to pay the remainder of the bill only to be told that they don’t have such a terminal. So much for these sacred ‘Scheme Rules’…
This could be a real problem… It’s impossible to check in to any motel without a physical credit card and they generally don’t take cash at all. Likewise, gas stations. This risk of being held up is too great in both cases, I’m told.
So… Unless where I eat, sleep, drink, and refuel accepts ApplePay or has a Chip & PIN card terminal, I’m stuffed.
25 April 2025
The Cameron Pass is featured on a number of websites as a must-ride route so I go off in search of it under another flawless blue sky via the town of Walden.
It’s well worth the detour: the standard sweepy, fast stuff followed by a tricksy, nadgery little road that follows the course of the Cache la Poudre through a steep gorge.
On exiting it, there’s a sudden bang and the tyre pressure warning light on the dash comes on immediately. I limp on for a mile and park outside the Mishawaka Amphitheatre & Restaurant. If there is a stroke of luck in this tale, this is the first of a few.
On inspection, I pull a two-inch tack out of the tyre and attempt a temporary repair using a little plug that you screw in the hole. It’s coated with a chemical that reacts with the tyre to cement it in place and form an airtight seal.
The size of the hole is at the limit of what the plug can deal with. I pump in two little cylinders of air and it seems to be holding. I’m never going to travel again without one of these day-saving kits.
The compressed air cylinders work but you’d need ten to get enough pressure in a tyre to ride on it. So I go off in search of a kindly soul with a foot pump.
Inside the Mishawaka, they are setting up for a gig this evening.
A man with the bushiest beard I’ve ever seen and a natural air of authority is presiding over a crew of roadies. There’s a phalanx of blond women, nearby clad uniformly in black jeans and T-shirts, holding clipboards or pecking at MacBooks, all look slightly irritated and hugely self-important.
He of The Beard sees me being given a damn good ignoring, breaks off mid-sentence, and asks how he can help. I’ve just interrupted a clearly very busy man but he just says: “We can fix this. Follow me."
He go on an impromptu tour of his venue. It can hold 1,000 people, so only acts of a certain standing get to play here. Open to the stars with epic, looming granite on three sides. I cannot think of a better place to get lagered up while listening to anthemic, live music.
Josh is clearly busy, doing some electrical rigging. In a comradely fashion, he is told his priority is now to help me.
Without any dissent, he puts down his tools. A portable air compressor is found, wheeled to the bike and the rear tyre is pumped up. It seems to be holding the correct pressure.
I say thank you to Josh in the appropriate manner and go in to find Mr. ZZ Top. I'm not going to embarrass him by offering any money so ask if they have a charity box. They don't. He just says: “No problem, fugetabutit. Stop by sometime and stay. You'll have a great time." I'm sure I will. And I will.
The tyre holds pressure for 25 miles but then drops from 3.0 Bar, to 2.9 and to 2.8 within a mile. There's BMW Northern Colorado (NoCo) showing on the satnav, just by the freeway entrance. I divert as I'm not going to make the 60 miles to Foothills Motorcycles, BMW’s main agent in Denver, where I'm expected at 16:30 for them to investigate the starting problem.
They have the correct tyres in stock and seemed surprised I think they might not. They also have sufficient manpower to reschedule their workload to accommodate a traveller. I’ll be on my way in two hours.
Their customers must be equally accommodating. I’m told they are generally sympathetic about delays to work on their own bikes, if explained it’s the result of helping out somebody on the road.
I go for a walk around the dealership and explain to Aidan & John in the parts department that my Sena headset has failed. As a result, I face the next 6,000 miles with only my own thoughts for company.
Too diplomatic to say how awful that prospect sounds, they have, as if by magic, the same unit in-stock. “What went wrong with the one I had?” they ask.
I grumble that I don't think it was fitted correctly. I show them the evidence of distorted and twisted cables that, I suspect, have caused one of the speakers to cut out intermittently.
The unequivocal response is the dealer I bought it from fitted it wrong. They can install one properly, right now. Unbidden, they offer to send the knackered one back to the manufacturer and seek a replacement whereupon they will refund my purchase with them in full.
If they manage to get this, this would be great, but the fact they offered to do it is enough for me.
I must have met half a dozen members of the BMW NoCo crew. With apologies for not calling everyone each out by name, their total commitment to helping me is collective and instinctive.
One of the enduring myths, dearly held in the UK is that, anywhere between the USA coasts, all you can get is fast food, there is not much to see and we have better beer. All utter bollocks. Another is the majority of North American’s have neither a sense of humour or an appreciation of irony…
Double and triple bollocks: I would relish the thought of spending an evening in a Colorado Craft Micro Brewery - of which there are many - or anywhere else for that matter, with this gang. Just the nicest, funnest people you could hope to meet.
I'm used to having to deploy the full spectrum of Dickensian techniques to get what I need in life. From obsequious gratitude to full-throated aggression and everything in between. But here, I just sit in their lounge with coffee and water, trying to figure out why life isn't always this easy. I do hope someone from Natwest reads this.
Yes, US BMW motorcycle dealerships are expensive, compared to their UK counterparts. But by god are they worth it. Achieving this level of professionalism combined with such agility needs the best people. All of this costs money but the benefits are self-evident.
So, two hours later and happily unburdened of $1,300, I'm finally on my way to Denver.
26 April 2024
I'd been corresponding with Bear at Foothills, about the starting problems.
He'd clicked on a link to my website, read a couple of my posts, and told his boss. In turn, boss had called their PR agency who emailed to ask if I'd mind being interviewed for their various social media channels. Do you know any UK dealerships with a PR agency? No, me neither.
Ever the shrinking violet, I leap at the chance and insisted on fulfilling the obligation even though I now don't need to go there now. BMW NoCo had investigated the starting issue, on the house. They could find nothing seriously wrong and given me the confidence to press on.
And what a tremendous cast of characters the crew at Foothills are. All, absolutely committed bikers.
Bear was born two-foot tall. By the age of three, he was tall enough for his first dirt bike so Grandpa bought him one. Bear took to it instinctively. After doing a lap of the circuit Grandpa had laid out for him, told him: ”Make it go faster.”
Grandpa and Daddy duly did, declining to tell Grandma or Mummy what they were up to when quizzed about the hours they were spending in the garage: “Just making sure it’s super-safe for Bear” they said…
Brendan, the Sales Manager, conducts the interview. He explains he only got into biking as his mother chided him for being a bit of a girly-boy as he didn’t like motorcycles. Yes, that’s right: his mother actively encouraged him to take up riding.
The bearded mountain below is that delicate, effete soul, pictured next to his son’s, 1997 R1150 sidecar combo he rides with his wife.
Brendan rides the same model, in the same colour, but sans side car.
"Why do they have the sidecar? I ask.
"Oh, that's for their Golden Labrador."
What a stupid question. Move on.
Everybody I meet is such great fun, Like BMW NoCo, I could spend the day there but they have work to do and I have nearby Lookout Mountain, the resting place of Buffalo Bill, to visit.
Luke, in the Accessories Department, recommended I go there, for the best views of the city, and the two roads that lead to and from it. These resemble a theme park ride, such are the twists and turns. It’s great advice and every two-wheeled visitor to Denver should do this.
Later, I take an Uber into Denver to visit Prost, a brewery bar recommended by Bear. It takes over an hour to cover the seven miles to get there. Jesus, this traffic is worse than London. But it's a good call with strong and distinctive beers.
I then cross the South Platte River on the 20th Street Bridge to have a look at Downtown. One evening is not enough for an informed judgment but Denver city seemed pretty nice.
Like Vancouver, it’s regularly ranked as one of the great cities to live in and it certainly has all the ingredients. It just doesn’t grab you like New York or San Francisco do, but I’d like to take another look.
It is sufficiently cosmopolitan to have been colonised by Michelin Inspectors. There are three, starred restaurants but all offer only elaborate, two-hour plus, tasting menus that I can be arsed with anymore.
The Mercantile Dining & Provisions Company is listed by the Clemont-Ferand Mafia and housed in the impressive Union Station building. It’s much more my thing: deceptively simple with promise..
So, after a few olives with lemon and garlic confit and a glass of wine, I’m just tucking into a Bone-In Sakura Pork Chop with smoked ‘Jones Jelly’ demi-glace, lightly-crushed new potatoes, beech mushroom and strawberry rosemary preserve, when my phone rings.
It’s BikeTrac in the UK who have just detected 'unusual movement’ of my bike. They suggest I check on it as soon as possible.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. What now? What has happened to it? Is it even still there? Is this the end of a dream?