The motel in Castle Rock was right across the street from a Harley dealer. I checked it out the next morning for new t-shirts, but the only one I liked had only XXhuge left. We hit the highway.
Heavy, dark clouds hung over the mountains to the West, and we rode toward the breaks in the clouds. Just outside of Colorado Springs-- home of the ever-vigilant Focus on the Family hate-mongers (their visitors center is clearly marked with official highway signage) the sky let loose with a torrent, and we pulled off at the next exit to gas up and wait out the rain. A bunch of other bikers had taken refuge in a tavern next door. They were headed for a rally up in one of the mining towns, and were in no hurry to head into the storms. I joined them for a while, soaking in the testosterone and damp leather.
The clouds lifted by the time I reached Pueblo, storms rolling westward onto the plains. Dick had told me about a gay bar there, so I stopped to check it out. It was called Pirate's Cove, and had the arrh, matey decor to match. I didn't stay long, but had to snap the sculpture just across the street.
The rest of the way to Albuquerque was uneventful, a relaxing ride thru the long afternoon, listening to my iPod as the mountains descended from towering, craggy granite behemoths to smaller, layered sandstone. It was dark by the time we made the long swing into the wide valley into the city. Of course, I turned west instead of east on I-40, and was caught in an interminable traffic jam. I-40 was closed, and the Truckers and low-riders were sitting in a two-mile parking lot, so after a long, polite wait, wishing it were California, I simply pretended it was and white-lined out of the mess. 90 some-odd detour blocks later, I finally found the Sidewinder, a country bar. The manager, Sean, who Cuff had scouted out for me, had already left. Hokayyyy--
So, I sauntered into the leather bar annex, feeling eyes run up and down my road-grimy leathers and windswept beard like searchlights. The burly pierced and bearded bartender filled me in on some local info and put my jacket behind the bar. Dave is a friendly, furry fella, far too cute to be single, even if he did invite me to hang out for a bit while he cleaned up when the bar closed.
Outside was the usual after-bar gaggle of folk chatting animatedly. I stomped over to Dark Phoenix, parked on the walk right by the door, and roared in my best biker rumble,
"Who wants to take home a horny biker?"
Lots of nervous giggles ensued. No one took me up on my generous offer.
So, I found a cheap motel, got five hours sleep before the 10AM checkout (UGH) and had breakfast while I called around for Albuquerque contacts. I was so glad that the Village Inn brings ya a whole pot of coffee!