Pikes Peak Isn’t About the View
Day 5 in Colorado started easier than any other day — no real schedule, no “make miles,” just one requirement: get to the gate within our ticket window. The night before, laying in bed, something told me to double-check the entry rules. I don’t know why I had the feeling, but I’m glad I listened. Pikes Peak runs timed entry, and if you don’t handle it ahead of time you can end up waiting at the base for hours. We had planned this climb before the trip was even a real plan — Kenny had done it once, I never had — and if you’re there, you do it.
— An Easier Morning, A Bigger Plan
Day 5 started calmer than any other morning in Colorado.
No rush to stack miles. No tight route to hit before dark.
Just one thing on the list — make it to the gate within our entry window.
The night before, laying in bed, something told me to double-check the rules.
I didn’t know why it was on my mind, but I pulled up the site anyway.
Pikes Peak runs on timed entry, and if you don’t handle it ahead of time,
you can end up waiting at the base for hours.
Kenny and I had talked about riding Pikes Peak before this trip was ever real.
He’d done it once years ago. I never had.
And when you’re there — actually there — it’s one of those rides you don’t skip.
— From Summer to Mountain
It was July, and by the time we rolled toward the gate it was already warm at the base —
around eighty degrees before nine in the morning.
A quick weather check showed the summit sitting closer to fifty.
We pulled up to the main entrance a little too excited and skipped the first small pull-off with bathrooms.
I had all of our tickets pulled up on my phone — names ready, passes scanned — and they waved us through.
About a mile up the road there was another gravel lot, so we ducked in there instead.
Extra layers went on. Helmets back on. One last reset before the climb.
Standing there, it didn’t feel like we were about to ride the highest paved road in North America.
It just felt like another clean Colorado morning — the kind that eases you in before it shows you what it’s really about.
— It Starts Like Any Other Road
Rolling past the gate, the first few miles felt almost ordinary.
Clean pavement. Wide corners. Pine trees and scattered boulders lining the road.
If you didn’t know where you were, you’d never guess you were riding toward the highest paved road in North America.
A few miles in, it started to feel more like a national forest.
Small pull-offs appeared along the shoulder.
Trailheads. Hikers. The kind of place where it’s easy to relax and forget what’s coming.
That’s the trick of Pikes Peak.
It doesn’t announce itself right away.
It lets you settle in first — like any other Colorado road — before it slowly changes the rules.
— The Mountain Starts Watching Back
A couple miles into the climb, we caught sight of a group of riders coming around a corner in the distance.
Tight formation. Two clean lines. Smooth, deliberate.
As they passed, it clicked — state troopers.
BMW cruisers, about fifteen of them, moving in near-perfect unison.
Another mile up the road we passed a second group, almost identical,
carving through the turns like it was choreographed.
Later we’d learn they ride it every morning before heading out on patrol.
Watching them disappear into the next set of curves was a reminder that this road isn’t just scenic —
it demands respect.
Up to that point, it still felt like a forest road.
Beautiful. Calm.
But the mountain was starting to let us know it was paying attention.
— When the Road Starts Talking Back
Not long after the troopers disappeared ahead of us, the road began to change.
Hairpins tightened. Grades steepened. And through the curves, we started feeling it —
a strange washboard sensation pulsing up through the bikes.
Kenny and I talked it over the CB.
There was also a light-colored, salt-like substance scattered through some of the turns,
just enough to make the surface feel loose in spots.
It wasn’t dangerous — but it demanded attention.
Rick didn’t have comms.
That detail would matter more than we realized at the time.
The air got cooler in the shade.
Corners became tighter and more deliberate.
And without saying it out loud, we could all feel it —
this wasn’t just a scenic road anymore.
— Sky on Exit
The road flattened briefly as we climbed higher, ending at a small building tucked against the mountainside.
Ahead of it, crawling up the right lane, was a massive excavator —
steel tracks grinding slowly against the pavement, hugging the edge of the road.
As we rolled past the machine, it became obvious what had been causing the washboard feel in the corners.
Just beyond it was a tight hairpin, immediately increasing in elevation as you exited the turn.
Coming out of that corner, all you saw was sky.
No horizon. No reference point.
Just blue in front of you and a rock wall tight to your right.
It was the kind of turn that demands commitment the moment you lean in.
Kenny was out front.
I followed, staggered behind him.
Rick was behind me on his midnight blue Road Glide.
— Gone From the Mirror
Coming out of the next curve, I glanced in my mirror.
Rick was gone.
No comms. No way to radio him. Just empty pavement behind me.
I rolled off the throttle and let the bike settle, then told Kenny I didn’t see him.
For a moment, all we could do was wait.
Then Rick came around the corner.
He was stiff as a board — elbows high, body locked, absolutely no lean to the bike.
I knew it immediately. He was already terrified.
Rick had never liked heights, and convincing him to ride Pikes Peak had been a stretch from the start.
But once you’re there, you do it. At least once.
Seeing him come through that corner, it was clear this wasn’t just uncomfortable anymore.
— No Turning Back
Kenny and I didn’t need to say much over the radio.
We both knew what was happening.
Rick was scared — not a little uneasy, not second-guessing — genuinely scared.
We made the call to keep moving, but we slowed the pace.
If we stopped, he was turning around.
And somehow, letting him turn back felt worse than helping him get through it.
The climb continued, mile after mile, and the landscape began to thin out.
Trees started to disappear.
Around ten thousand feet, we crossed the timberline — the point where nothing tall enough to block the wind can grow anymore.
From there on, the road felt exposed.
Less forest. More sky.
The mountain stopped offering comfort and started demanding focus.
— Above the Trees
Past the timberline, the mountain feels different.
The trees are gone. The edges are sharper.
There’s nothing left to soften the view or block the wind.
We passed Evo Corner — a reminder, without much explanation,
of how unforgiving this road can be.
You don’t need the stories to understand it.
One look over the edge tells you everything you need to know.
From there on, the scenery stopped feeling like scenery.
It became exposure.
The road clung to the mountain, and everything beyond the pavement
dropped away into open space.
I kept checking my mirrors.
Rick was still there — farther back now, but steady.
No sudden moves. No mistakes.
Just getting through it one corner at a time.
— Mile Markers and Thin Air
Signs ahead told us we were nearing mile marker seventeen.
That’s when it really starts to sink in how high you are.
The curves tighten again, but now there’s less mountain around you —
just road, guardrail, and sky.
Clouds began forming below us, hanging in the distance like they belonged somewhere else.
The sky looked wrong in a way that’s hard to explain —
too clean, too sharp, like something edited into a photo after the fact.
We passed mile eighteen and the summit finally came into view.
It still felt far away, even though we were almost there.
The kind of distance that messes with your head when the air is thin
and every movement feels just a little heavier than it should.
I checked the mirrors again.
Rick was still there.
Quiet. Focused.
Just surviving the climb.
— The Top of It
The parking lot at the summit was already packed.
Cars everywhere. People wandering around in hoodies and sandals,
phones out, pointing in every direction.
It had only been about an hour and a half since the road opened,
and it felt like everyone in Colorado had the same idea we did.
Somehow we’d timed it right.
Either the pace we kept or the time we entered meant we never got stuck behind anyone on the way up.
No crawling. No awkward passes.
Just a clean run all the way to the top.
Kenny and I found the motorcycle parking near the main building and backed our bikes in like normal,
lining them up clean inside the lines.
Rick didn’t bother.
He pulled straight in, sideways across the space, shut the bike off,
and looked at us with pure frustration.
“F**K YOU,” he said.
We laughed.
At the time, we thought he was exaggerating.
— Thin Air and Sugar
Inside the summit building, the line wrapped around faster than we expected.
Everyone had the same idea — warm up, grab a drink, and experience the place from something other than a parking lot.
The famous Pikes Peak donuts were still available.
The coffee and hot chocolate were not.
Lesson learned: if that’s your plan, get there earlier.
We grabbed a few donuts anyway and stepped outside.
The views were unreal — endless ridgelines, clouds sitting below us,
and the cog railway crawling its way up the mountain like it didn’t care how high it was.
That’s when we realized Rick wasn’t just shaken.
His smartwatch later recorded a panic attack,
and the altitude was starting to hit him hard.
What felt like a joke in the parking lot suddenly made more sense.
— The Way Back Down
With Rick not feeling well, we didn’t linger.
A quick pass through the gift shop, helmets back on, and we pointed the bikes downhill.
The ride down felt faster.
Maybe because we knew the road now.
Maybe because there was less tension in every corner.
Or maybe because we were ready for solid ground again.
We skipped every scenic pull-off on the way down.
Part of me wanted to stop — take photos, soak it in, slow the moment down.
But I’d rather have my brother make it to the top with me than risk turning the ride into something worse.
Sometimes the right call on a trip isn’t about seeing everything.
It’s about getting everyone through it.
— When the Ride Ends Quietly
Instead of retracing our path, we took a back road Art had mentioned —
a quieter way around the backside of the mountain that felt more fitting for the mood.
The road rolled on for a while before we pulled over about twenty-five miles down.
Rick still wasn’t feeling right.
Between the altitude and the stress of the climb, it had taken more out of him than he let on.
We didn’t debate it for long.
We found the quickest route back to the highway and pointed the bikes toward Art’s place.
Everyone was tired anyway — the good kind of tired that settles in after a full trip.
As the miles passed, a quiet feeling crept in.
Tomorrow, we’d be heading home.
The Colorado ride was ending.
Not with a big moment.
Not with fireworks.
Just with the road behind us, the mountains in the mirrors,
and the understanding that some rides don’t need a loud ending to matter.
Part 5 — Pikes Peak Isn’t About the View
Day 5 started calmer than any other day in Colorado.
No tight schedule. No pressure to stack miles.
Just one climb we’d talked about long before this trip ever existed.
Pikes Peak wasn’t challenging in the way you expect.
It wasn’t about speed or skill.
It was about exposure, patience, and staying present —
especially when someone riding with you was fighting more than the road.
Part 5 wasn’t about the summit. It was about slowing down, making the right calls, and understanding that sometimes the hardest part of a ride is taking care of the people you’re sharing it with.
Some rides test the bike.
Some rides test the rider.
This one tested the group.
Colorado on Two Wheels
Question for you: what’s the ride that taught you more about the people you were with than the road itself?
