The last ride ...

Thursday, July 18, the final day of riding together. We were up at a more reasonable time and didn't rush to get out of the room. The plan was to ride to Loveland, have breakfast or lunch, and then Hobbs would continue on east and I'd head north on I-25.

I get sad and teary when we have to part, and this time was no exception. And then I was just riding … running the slab, straight, boring, getting hotter by the minute.

A gas stop was in order, about 130 miles into my 700-mile ride (which was to be split into two days). While at the gas stop, I saw three other bikes also gassing up. They were wearing black and yellow colors, and I assumed (wrongly, of course) that they might be part of the Combat Vets Motorcycle Association. I went up to talk to the guy on the other side of my pump. No, they were not Combat Vets. They were Valiants Motorcycle Club of Denver, heading to the Iron Horse Rally in Red Lodge. Hobbs and I had seen posters about coming through, but it wasn't on our agenda.

Pops (the guy I was talking with, who it turns out is 68), said to wait a minute. He went over to the other two, a gal, Kris, and a guy, Doc. Pops came back to me and said I could ride with them to Billings if I wanted to.

I thought about it for a minute and said, sure, why not. He said they'd be running mostly 75-80-mph. I said that would be fine, but if I dropped back because I couldn't keep up, not to worry about me.

Off we went, Doc, Kris, Pops and me bringing up drag. I got a motion from Pops to move up. And there I was, riding side-by-each, not at 75-mph, but mostly 80, and sometimes 85 or 90. Good grief. Was I nuts? Probably, but I was having fun. (I later found out from Kris that the women of the group ride behind; but Kris had said to Pops, you invite her to ride you ride next to her. Kris told him she didn't know how I rode but she knew how Doc rode. I certainly understood where she was coming from.)

We stopped a few times for gas, and a couple of them had a bite and a beer. Pops doesn't drink while on the bike, and I was good with that since he was my partner on the second line. We were in the dining area and, of course, you know I have to ask questions. Why would they invite me to ride with them? They don't know me or how I ride. Pops said it was not so safe for a single female to be riding alone, and I told him I'd never had a problem riding alone.

As far as my riding, Pops said he'd figured out in 5 minutes that I knew what I was doing. He asked me how many miles a year I rode. I told him about 30,000 and he just kind of sat back. He told me that he rode about 10,000 and thought that was an accomplishment. He asked if I was a cop? No. Then he wanted to know why I decided to ride with them. They seemed like good folks. And considerate.

Then we were off again. I could always hear where Pops was due to his pipes. He rides a Fat Boy, Kris a Switchback and Doc a Road King. And like Hobbs and me, they have other bikes as well. Doc has a 1972 Shovelhead, said it was an FX, which is what Hobbs' 1976 is.

Made it to Billings, had some supper and I learned they're from Florence, along Highway 50, where I'd ridden with Jaz a few years ago. She and I had stayed in Canon City. Small world, this. I'd enjoyed meeting with them, riding with them, eating with them. But tomorrow would be another day.