Colorado on Two Wheels — Part 4
Wednesday was the last day with the whole crew together. Same excitement as every morning — coffee, gear, and that pull toward whatever the road had planned — but with a quiet edge underneath it. You can feel the trip narrowing when real life starts calling people home. The bike does what it always does: it pulls you back into the present, clears the noise, and makes the next mile the only thing that matters.
— The Last Morning as a Full Crew
Wednesday started like every good touring day starts — bags half-packed, coffee doing its job, and that quiet excitement about whatever the road
has lined up next. But there was something different underneath it.
This was the last day with the whole crew together. After today, the trip would thin out — work schedules, responsibilities, real life.
You don’t always say it out loud, but you feel it. The end starts showing up before the miles do.
That’s when the motorcycle does what it always does: it pulls you back into the moment. The noise from the past gets lighter. The pressure of
what’s waiting at home fades out. It’s hard to describe unless you’ve lived it — but out there, with a bike between your legs and open road ahead,
clarity has a way of showing up on its own.
— Goodbyes in Motion
We headed south of downtown Denver to meet the rest of the crew at the hotel. A chunk of the guys were leaving that day, so we rolled in to
surprise them and say goodbye the right way — in person, bikes out front, helmets in hand.
That moment always hits different on a trip. You’re still on the road, still in it, but you can feel the real world starting to tug people back.
There’s no dramatic speech. Just handshakes, quick laughs, a couple “we’ll do it again” promises — and the understanding that everyone means it.
Then it’s the same ritual: engines fire, gloves snap tight, and the group starts to unravel. Not all at once — just one lane change at a time,
one exit at a time, until the ride becomes smaller and quieter again.
— Fuel for the Day
Once the goodbyes were done, we pointed the bikes south and worked our way out of the city. Coffee and fuel were next — for both the machines and
ourselves — so we rolled into Sedalia to top everything off.
It was one of those Colorado mornings that keeps you honest. Chilly enough to make you think twice, but with that high-altitude sun already
hinting at what the afternoon might bring. Layers went back on, zippers came up, and gloves stayed snug.
There’s something grounding about those stops early in the day. No rush. No noise. Just a quiet reset before the miles start stacking again.
After a few sips of coffee and a full tank, the direction was clear.
— Climbing Into the Pines
From Sedalia, we headed south on Highway 67 and started climbing into the mountains. The road opened up into long, flowing sweepers before
tightening into switchbacks, and with every mile the environment changed. Sandy browns slowly disappeared, replaced by deep greens and tall
pines that closed in around the road.
We peeled off toward Pine Creek Road and let the highway fall away behind us. Backroads took over, and the ride settled into a steady rhythm.
Harley engines thundered past small homes and quiet ranches, the kind of places that feel untouched by hurry. Just road, machines, and miles
stacking up one corner at a time.
It was the kind of stretch where nobody needed to say much. The road was doing all the talking.
— The Fun Stretch
We rejoined Highway 67 and continued toward Deckers, a stretch we’d ridden before and knew well. This was the fun part. Throttles twisted a
little more, speeds crept up, and the curves started coming together like choreography. The bikes felt planted, predictable — everything
moving the way it was supposed to.
From there, we rolled through Woodland Park and picked up Route 24, dropping down toward Colorado Springs. As the city came into view, a massive
peak rose to the south — Pikes Peak. It’s almost deceiving from a distance. Sunlit and bare at the top, with the timberline drawn clean across
the mountain like a painted horizon.
Just before reaching the city, we cut down Garden Drive and into Garden of the Gods. The lush greens vanished almost instantly, replaced by red
rock and clay formations that felt completely out of place — and absolutely stunning. Colorado has a way of changing the entire landscape
without warning.
— Red Rock and Bad Timing
We made our way around the backside of Garden of the Gods and found a small spot to park the bikes. Helmets came off, engines clicked as they
cooled, and we took a few minutes to soak it all in. Red rock formations rising out of the ground, sharp and unreal, with Pikes Peak looming in
the distance.
A quick walk around, a quiet moment to enjoy the view, and a discreet break or two before we geared back up. The plan was simple — head to the
Garden of the Gods Welcome Center and grab a bite to eat.
As we walked toward the doors, a few of us checked the weather. A storm system was building north of the range, tracking toward Denver. Still,
we figured we had time. That confidence faded fast when we realized the “café” inside was little more than a snack counter — barely a step up
from a vending machine.
A couple of guys suggested hopping on the highway and heading back to beat the storm. But that wasn’t why we were here. Most of us decided to
push on and try a nearby spot instead.
— Rain on the Way Home
We rolled a short distance to a nearby spot called Trails End, hoping it would be an easy win. It wasn’t. One person working, nine hungry riders,
and a system that made ordering feel rushed and awkward. No menu until you reached the front. Fancy bar appetizers priced like a full meal.
Even the beer taps felt more like an electronic soda machine than a place to settle in.
Nearly an hour passed before the last plates hit the table, arriving one at a time. And right on cue, the rain started. Heavy. No mistaking
it. Whatever window we thought we had was gone.
One by one, pairs of us stepped outside to grab rain gear and helmets. We suited up inside the now-quiet bar and headed straight into it. The
ride back toward Denver was slow and steady, rain coming down hard enough that staying dry was never an option. Just focus, spacing, and miles.
By the time we rolled back into the city, everyone peeled off toward wherever they were staying. The plan was to regroup later that night for
one final meal together. Three of us still had another big day ahead in Colorado — and for me, it would be the biggest one yet.
Colorado has a way of compressing a lot into a single day — perfect roads, bad timing, unexpected weather, and the kind of miles that linger long
after the engines shut off. We didn’t get everything right, but we got exactly what we came for.
And for a few of us, the ride wasn’t finished yet.
Part 5 — The Day That Changes the Ride
By the time morning came, the group was smaller and the energy felt different.
Not worse — just sharper. Quieter. Like everyone left knew they were riding into something
that mattered a little more.
Three of us stayed behind with one more full day ahead. Bigger miles. Bigger elevation.
And for me, a ride I’d been thinking about long before this trip ever started.
Part 5 felt like the longest day of the trip — and the one that leaves a mark. Less about checking boxes, more about seeing what happens when you stay on the bike and let the miles work on you.
Some rides are fun. Some are beautiful.
This one was something else entirely.
Colorado on Two Wheels
Question for you: what’s the one moment from your longest ride that you still replay in your head?
