Having left my jacket and gear behind in my hotel room, the cool mountain air pierced through my long-sleeve shirt as I rode into downtown Durango. I had learned that there were times that a full set of gear wasn't practical, and today was one of those days. I parked the bike and tucked the parking permit into the zipper of my tank bag, realizing there was no good place on a motorcycle to display one without risk of it getting stolen or blown away by the wind.
At the station, I grabbed a coffee and climbed aboard the train. As I settled into my seat, I was struck by the details of the old railcar, intrigued at how elements of its 130-year-old design mirrored their modern counterparts. The car's windows, for instance, could be raised and locked at incremental position using the identical design as those in my apartment, something built nearly a century later.
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When the whistle blew and the train lurched forward, a guide at the front of the car began to narrate stories of Durango’s past. She described how the phrase "the wrong side of the tracks" was based on how surveyors studied wind directions to strategically layout a new town's streets to avoid the soot from steam engines. Another story, set against the infamous Ute tribe's Meeker Massacre, told how one grifter went from town to town claiming to be chased by the Utes, just to get free drinks. I listened while the train chugged its way through the mountains, passing by places that were once stage stops or towns that were once large enough to have their own post offices. Now they had faded to obscurity, barely indistinguishable from the mountain forests around them.
The train’s path cut through the wilderness, eventually arriving in the former mining Silverton—a town that felt frozen in in the late 1800s. Many of the buildings retained their old west charm, and the unpaved streets reinforced the sense that the town was hanging on to a bygone era. I wandered into a restaurant, once a brothel, and sat down at the bar for lunch. The place an odd blend of nostalgia and quiet desperation and as I thought about all the places we had passed that had failed and been abandoned. The feds were pumping money into keeping Detroit afloat, but what made that city more worthy of saving than a town like this? As I finished my meal, I left a generous tip, feeling like it was the least I could do for a place struggling to survive.
After a short walk down Silverton’s main street, I returned to the train for the scenic ride back to Durango. Watching the river wind its way through the mountains and seeing the sheer cliffs pass by once more, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe for the engineering feat that had created this railway. The train pulled back into town, having burnt a total of 5 tons of coal and guzzled over 15,000 gallons of water over the day. It was an enjoyable ride, but I was glad that steam trains were no longer a primary form of transportation.
The next morning, I set off towards Colorado Springs, but not before reconsidering a planned detour to a friend's family ranch. With an impending snowstorm in the forecast, I decided it wasn’t worth the risk of getting stuck, and instead opted for a more straightforward route. The ride took me higher and higher into the mountains, the GPS's altimeter ticking upwards until it blanked out at 10,000 feet. I began to feel slightly hazy, experiencing a mild hypoxia due to the lower oxygen at such high elevations, and began to attempt to figure out how much air the bike's 865cc engine was consuming, but I quickly realized I didn't know enough of the details for it.
As I descended from the peaks, dark clouds gathered in the distance, promising rain. I skirted the edge of the storm, narrowly avoiding a soaking as I made my way into Colorado Springs. My destination was the Air Force Academy, where I was struck by the sheer youth of the cadets milling about. It was a jarring reminder that, though I was technically still in the same career field, I was now separated by years and experiences that seemed to stretch as far as the road behind me. The realization left me with a pang of sadness as I checked into the Academy’s inn for the night.
The following day marked the beginning of the end of the trip. I had no more side adventures planned, no scenic detours to take, only the vast expanse of the Great Plains separating me from home. With the plains stretching out endlessly before me, I hopped on the interstate and prepared for a long day of riding. The road was uneventful, the scenery bland, and I found myself thinking about how this leg of the trip mirrored the video games of my youth, where the heartland of the U.S. was little more than empty space between more interesting locations.
By the time I reached Omaha, I was ready to be done for the day. Unfortunately, Offutt Air Force Base was booked solid, leaving me no choice but to check into a nearby Hampton Inn. As I settled into the room, the realization hit me: I was almost home. This journey, which had seemed like an endless series of challenges and landscapes, was nearing its conclusion.
The next day, the wind carried me across Iowa, the green farmland passing by in a blur. I crossed into Wisconsin at Dubuque, where a wooden sign greeted me with the state’s traditional warmth. The state’s dairy industry was apparent—every cow I saw looked like it belonged on a milk carton. But as I rode on, the familiar problem with my shifter resurfaced. I pulled over to the side of the road, hoping for a quick fix, but it was clear the problem was worse than I thought. Without the right tools, I was stuck using my vice grip as a makeshift shifter once again, and though the Scrambler had enough power to keep moving in high gear, navigating the hills in Joe’s neighborhood would be tricky.
I finally arrived at my friend Joe’s house in Green Bay, his familiar black Chevy Cavalier parked in the driveway. As I entered the garage, I punched in the code and pulled the bike inside, thankful for a place to rest and make repairs. The next morning, after a night on Joe’s couch, I took his Jeep to a nearby motorsports shop, hoping to find a new shifter. The sales guy handed me two folding shift levers, one of which looked like it might fit. I returned to the garage and, to my relief, the new shifter worked perfectly.
With the bike repaired and the rest of the day ahead of me, I relaxed at Joe’s place, catching up on old times. The final days of this journey were approaching, but for now, I could breathe. The adventure that had consumed my life for weeks was winding down, and soon, I’d be back home with Alyssa, ready to close this chapter and begin a new one.
I finally arrived at my friend Joe’s house in Green Bay, his familiar black Chevy Cavalier parked in the driveway. As I entered the garage, I punched in the code and pulled the bike inside, thankful for a place to rest and make repairs. The next morning, after a night on Joe’s couch, I took his Jeep to a nearby motorsports shop, hoping to find a new shifter. The sales guy handed me two folding shift levers, one of which looked like it might fit. I returned to the garage and, to my relief, the new shifter worked perfectly.
With the bike repaired and the rest of the day ahead of me, I relaxed at Joe’s place, catching up on old times. The final days of this journey were approaching, but for now, I could breathe. The adventure that had consumed my life for weeks was winding down, and soon, I’d be back home with Alyssa, ready to close this chapter and begin a new one.
