Colorado On Two Wheels — Part 6
The ride home wasn’t the highlight — but it’s the part that makes the whole trip real.
You go from mountain air and late-night laughs to loading the bikes in the dark and pointing east.
The only “plan” was to get moving early, avoid the cities if we could, and buy ourselves time to take the backroads.
The night before we left, we said goodbye to Art and Stephanie — the kind of people who quietly turn a good trip into a great one.
A hot shower, a safe driveway, coffee in the morning… when you’re on the road, that’s everything.
We half-packed the bikes, set alarms for 5am, and tried to sleep knowing we were about to trade Colorado for miles of open country.
This last chapter is less about where we went — and more about what the week left us with.
The miles home gave us space to replay the moments that mattered… and realize we’d already be talking about the next one.
— Coffee, Goodbyes, and a Long Way Home
The night before we left, we said our goodbyes to Art and Stephanie.
We were lucky beyond words that they opened their home to us — fed us,
gave us a place to shower, and a bed to crash in after long days on the road.
On a trip like this, that’s really all you need.
We half packed before bed, planning to roll at 5 a.m.
Even though Art said he’d probably be sleeping, he was up anyway,
coffee already made, standing in the kitchen like he wasn’t about to lose a house full of bikers.
Kenny and Rick left the route mostly in my hands.
Since we weren’t in a rush, we decided to take backroads for the first day home —
stretch the trip instead of sprinting out of Colorado like it never happened.
The sun hadn’t even broken the horizon when we fueled up and pointed east,
carrying a week’s worth of memories in the saddlebags.
— Trading Mountains for Wheat Fields
We picked up Route 36 out of Denver and let Colorado fade in the mirrors.
The green hills slowly turned to gold, the air got heavier,
and the road straightened out like it was pulling us back to the Midwest one mile at a time.
Nebraska came on quiet and wide.
Wheat fields on both sides, colors that made you think about old photos of the Dust Bowl —
not in a sad way, just in a “this land has seen some things” kind of way.
Route 6 zigzagged north, then east, and when it aimed us toward Lincoln and Omaha
we decided to keep climbing instead — avoiding cities, staying on the two-lane veins of the country.
We caught 79 north to 30, rolled through Blair and Missouri Valley,
and agreed on one rule for the day: no big lunches, no wasting daylight —
just snacks, gas stops, and miles.
— A Cheap Hotel & A Hard Decision
By the time we dropped down into Des Moines the miles had started to sit in our shoulders.
Not tired in a bad way — more that relaxed kind where your brain is still somewhere
out on the backroads even though the day is done.
We found a Quality Inn just off I-80 — nothing fancy,
but close to food and close to the highway.
Wendy’s next door became our war room.
Burgers on plastic trays, helmets on the table,
and three phones glowing with weather radar.
The map wasn’t lying.
A long band of storms was sliding east right along our route home.
We had two choices:
leave at 3 a.m. and try to sneak ahead of it,
or roll out at six and punch straight through.
None of us wanted the 3 a.m. version.
So we chose the kind of plan you only make on motorcycles —
suit up, aim for the gap, and outrun whatever we couldn’t avoid.
— The Storm Starts Watching Back
Somewhere east of Des Moines the sky stopped feeling like background scenery
and started feeling like a moving wall behind us.
At first it was just darker clouds on the horizon.
Then the wind shifted.
Then the air got that heavy, electric feel every rider knows.
The kind that makes you glance in your mirrors a little more often.
We weren’t sightseeing anymore — we were running a line.
Davenport was our next fuel stop, about 180 miles out,
and at the pace we were holding the timing felt almost perfect.
Just fast enough to stay ahead. Maybe.
Every overpass we passed felt like a checkpoint.
Every semi throwing spray was a preview of what was coming.
The mountain had been patient and calm.
The Midwest storm was neither.
— When the Road Starts Talking Back
The first drops didn’t feel like much.
Just a mist hanging in the air as we crossed into Iowa,
the kind you can almost ignore at highway speed.
Then the lanes went dark.
Truck tires started throwing rooster tails.
The wind began pushing from the left like an invisible hand.
The road wasn’t scenery anymore — it was a conversation.
Kenny was out front, Rick behind him, me third in line.
At one point both Rick and I hit the same pool of water while changing lanes.
I felt the rear of the bike step out just enough to wake me up,
then settle back in like nothing happened.
I saw Rick do the exact same dance a second later.
No panic. No drama.
Just that quiet respect you get when the road reminds you who’s in charge.
Part 6 — The Miles After the Map Ends
The ride home is where a trip really shows itself.
No more bucket-list stops. No dramatic overlooks.
Just long ribbons of pavement and a head full of everything you’ve already lived through.
Colorado gave us all the big moments — passes above treeline, red rock mornings,
that slow climb up Pikes Peak — but the last two days gave us something quieter.
Backroads through Nebraska. Wheat fields turning gold.
Gas-station meals and weather apps glowing in the dark.
Then Iowa reminded us the story isn’t over until the kickstand is down for good.
Wind. Rain. One of those lane changes that wakes you up without saying a word.
Not dangerous — just honest.
Looking back, this trip wasn’t about one road or one summit. It was about the rhythm that forms when a small group shares a thousand miles — the jokes, the quiet stretches, the way you start reading each other without talking.
Some rides are postcards.
Some rides are stories.
This one became a chapter.
Expansion joints in bridges started reminding me why so many touring riders upgrade suspension.
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?
