Day Three: 

The first of what would be many WYDOT repaving projects in the middle of nowhere.

After decent camp coffee and granola bars for breakfast, we traveled back out Seminoe Backway to I-80 and slabbed a few miles to Rawlins, where we picked up Route 278 North. We ran into our first taste of Wyoming Department of Transportation road work, but not our last and not the worst. WYDOT’s idea of road repair is to completely scrape a 20-mile section of road down to the earth and start over, but to allow traffic to pass over the road in one direction with a lead vehicle. On 278 we were lucky in that the weather was dry and it hadn’t rained recently. We would find out later just how nasty a little moisture could make this scenario. After waiting in the beautiful sunshine, the lead truck brought a line of vehicles our way and turned around to take our group back. The road surface was loose large gravel and fine dirt, and while not exactly fun to ride a bike across, wasn’t all that bad and certainly not treacherous. We whooped and passed all the cars in front of us when we finally lost our lead truck and hit pavement again.

At Muddy Gap 278 tees into 220, but we stayed on 278 which veered west through the Green Mountains. The road was painted freehand over rolling open hills at around 6,500-7,800 feet. We turned north on 135 toward Riverton and the terrain flattened out to open scrub prairie, but still at 5,000 feet elevation. When we started the descent out of the higher elevations on 135, we suddenly popped out into a vast open area laid out before and below us, and the reds and yellows of the huge rock formations in the morning sun were spectacular. I wanted to stop and get a photo, but Mark was already a dot on the horizon and we needed to press on.

On long stretches of road like this between mountains, speeds rarely dropped below 90 mph.  We had to consciously strive to keep under 100 mph, just to save fuel and minimize tire wear.

After a burst of speed to catch up, I was following Mark through the desert and watched the prairie dogs react as the loud Guzzi blasted by them at 90 mph. A few would dart toward the center of the road and stop at the white line demarcating the shoulder. One distraught prairie dog repeated this act, and then as Mark’s front wheel neared, lunged directly in its path, only to be slung out from under the rear wheel in patty form.

Just north of Riverton we stopped in Shoshoni at the Yellowstone Drug Store for lunch. The place is one of two businesses still alive on a tired side street, but they were doing a booming business selling lunch and milkshakes, huge, malted milkshakes made in a stainless mixer that looked to be as old as the building. After gorging, we wandered around outside and chatted with a couple on a Harley. They were very interested in Mark’s day-glo yellow Aerostich, as they had been drenched earlier in their trip with insufficient raingear. Maybe yellow’s not exactly your color, dude. They were nice folks out for a ride just like us.

After lunch, we hopped on 20 north through Wind River Canyon, cut by the Big Horn River which was dammed into the Boysen Reservoir at its southern terminus. It was difficult to concentrate on the great curves for gawping at the scenery. But Mark was in the lead, and he wasn’t in the mood for gawping, so twist went the throttles and away we went. Route 20 traced the river north through the hot springs town of Thermopolis, and then on Worland where we turned back due east on Route 16. At the town of Ten Sleep, we entered Ten Sleep Canyon and saw signs bearing ominous warnings about road conditions, and specifically warning motorcyclists to consider alternate routes, except there really wasn’t one. 

Route 16 skirts the southern edge of Cloud Peak Wilderness and is an absolutely beautiful stretch of road, especially where it’s paved. We were running low on gas (well, Mark and Barbara and I were; Kim’s Sprint had about 50 miles per tank on the other three machines) and the last-chance station had a giant Texaco sign per the Rikki Lee Jones song. Except the man with the star was a pair of teenaged girls who informed me that they couldn’t take my Texaco card, and after trying in vain, figured out all on their own that they didn’t take American Express. I told them they might want to take down the enormous misleading sign out by the pumps, but blank looks were all that came back. Nothing spells love like cash, and then they remembered that the premium underground storage tank was empty, and the regular tank was close to empty. Joy. It took a while to fill all the bikes, but it would be just enough.

As we entered the construction zone it started to rain, and had been raining at higher elevations around Powder River Pass already. Our good friends at WYDOT were waiting for us, but this time we would get to ride on a pudding of mud, clay, fine gravel and asphalt oil. No one made it through without dog-paddling like a newbie on his Buell Blast, but nobody fell down. I could feel the Bandit’s cooling fins clogging with the viscous mixture, and smell it burning on the headers. For an anal clean-freak like me, it was torture of the most excruciating kind. We made it through the construction zone, and realized we were running late. We had stopped and called ahead to Sundance, WY, and got rooms at the Arrowhead motel, and wanted to get there in time to clean up and relax. After passing Lost Cabin and Crazy Woman, we exited the Cloud Peak Scenic Byway at Buffalo, and headed back onto 16 instead of slabbing down Interstate 90 towards Gillette. There was nothing on 16 whatsoever. We were in a hurry, and ran an indicated 95-100 miles per hour the whole way to Gillette. At Gillette we gassed up the filthy bikes and I noticed my new O-ring chain, installed just prior to the trip, was coated with the same gritty, oily stinky goo that was all over the bikes. I spun the rear wheel with the bike on the center stand and listened to the $117.00 chain squeak. Ugh. The Guzzis were just dirty.

After Gillette we hopped on 90 for the last leg to Sundance. We rolled into the Arrowhead Motel at dusk and the owner made us as comfortable as any host I’ve had, including providing a hose for bike washing in the morning. He was an Iowa pig farmer who vacationed in Sundance and fell in love with the place: “One day my neighbor offered me enough for my land that I told him yes.” Directly across the street from the Arrowhead was the holy grail of local-flavor restaurants, the ARO, which can provide excellent breakfast, lunch, dinner and cocktails. I love the west.

A view of the Arrowhead Motel from the 1950s. To see what it looks like 
today, move your mouse over the image.