The Migration

Friday, August 02, 2002

It has begun. As darkness lifted on the Rocky Mountain plateau the hordes began the final stages of the migration. Yearly the pilgrimage across tundra, plain, and pass commences. The cohort is attired in the regional regalia of their chosen clan. Though each group rebels against the common thread that binds them they all dress pretty much alike. The different casts of this group can be identified by the chosen method of travel. Un-chromed rat bikes moving alone up the interstate, trailers behind pickups, full on motor coaches with enclosed trailers, and all followed by more bikes. A constant stream of chrome, leather, and fifth wheels along the Interstate.

As I sit in my office looking out the window onto Interstate 25 the commonality is not as strong as some years. Here and there is some cordura, and bikes painted something other than black. Helmets are fewer and farer between, and I can’t help and wonder if that is a self-correcting social trend. Loud pipes seem less this year. Though somebody once told me, “Loud bikes are on trailers cause nobody would really ride something that loud”. Conspicuously missing this year are the BMW’s. They may appear later in the day as the auto train doesn’t arrive until late afternoon.

“Real men ride Harley’s” was on the back of a trailer I followed this morning to work. I wonder what the tattooed, longhaired, goatee-wearing guy in the Burgundy Toyota Camry towing the trailer with the Sportster in it was. I decided not to ask. I know it’s not true, but it seems like every trailer in Texas is traversing Colorado this morning. I have to admit I am ever so slightly jealous. I still would rather have these trailer queens and their riders part of the motorcycling scene then voting to take my right to ride away.
It is a shame though. While all of these trailered bikes are arriving in the Black Hills and get rode around a tiny patch of that wonderful landscape I will be here working everyday. I will be left riding my 120 to 200 miles a day commute along the Colorado Front Range. Until they get that light rail train finished.