WHERE THE PAVEMENT MEETS THE SKY
Behind the Visor in Colorado and New Mexico
By Randy Logan
There are motorcycle roads you ride, and there are roads that you experience. Across Colorado and northern New Mexico, the difference can reveal itself in a single corner. A ribbon of pavement disappears behind a shoulder of granite; the temperature falls or rises; pine and aspens suddenly fill the helmet view; and on the other side, an entire valley opens beneath an alpine sky. The road is no longer a way to get somewhere. It has become the reason for being there.
Over many riding days and miles, the route began and ended in Taos and reached deep into Colorado before returning through northern New Mexico. A BMW R1250GS carried the miles as well as the collection of extraordinary riders in tow, but the motorcycle was never the main character. The mountains, rivers, weather, history, communities, roads, and the people sharing them were by far the most important part.
Colorado: Into the High Country
Colorado announces itself through elevation. Coal Bank Pass rises to 10,640 feet, Molas Pass to 10,910, and Red Mountain Pass to 11,018, each climb stripping away another layer of the ordinary world. Forest gives way to exposed rock. Cool air works through the vents of riding gear. The scent of pine, aspen, and damp earth arrives through an open visor, and the San Juan Mountains begin to fill nearly everything the eye can see.
On the Million Dollar Highway and Red Mountain Pass, the pavement seems borrowed from the mountains rather than built through them. It clings to steep slopes, folds into tight corners, and occasionally reveals enormous drops and distant valleys. The discipline is simple: look through the turn, trust the tires, keep the line clean, and resist the urge to stare at scenery that seems designed to steal a rider's attention.
Dallas Divide and McClure Pass bring a different rhythm: broad ranch country, distant peaks, aspens and long sweepers. Gore Pass, Rabbit Ears Pass, Willow Creek Pass and Cameron Pass keep changing the scale, alternating between open high country and tighter mountain corridors. Rist Canyon, Devil's Gulch, the Peak-to-Peak region and Coal Creek turn the landscape into a succession of curves where a well-ridden motorcycle feels less like transportation than choreography.
The pavement through much of Colorado was exceptional, predictable, confidence-building, and beautifully suited to a motorcycle. Corners flowed into corners. Elevation climbed and fell. A technical section would suddenly release into a sweeping valley, only to tighten again around the next ridge. Ute Pass, Wilkerson Pass, Trout Creek Pass, Poncha Pass and Monarch Pass carried the route toward Salida, while Guanella Pass and Cerro Summit added still more changes in elevation and perspective.
Cottonwood Pass: Pavement at 12,126 Feet
Cottonwood Pass was the high point in every sense. At 12,126 feet, the trees surrender to rock and tundra, the air thins, and the sky seems to move closer. Mountains stretch in every direction while the road looks impossibly small against them. A motorcycle parked at the summit becomes a reminder of how far two wheels can carry a person, and how insignificant both rider and machine appear beside the Rockies.
When the Sky Becomes Part of the Road
Out West, the sky rides with you. One hour it can be a deep, almost mesmerizing blue, unobtrusive and immense against the alpine landscape. Clouds drift through it in familiar shapes, the kind that make a rider glance upward and see animals, faces or whatever the imagination supplies. Then the mood changes. White becomes gray. Gray stacks into dark, intimidating walls over the mountains. Wind pushes at the motorcycle, the temperature falls, and distant rain begins hanging beneath the clouds like curtains.
The approach to Idaho Springs delivered roughly one hour of sustained rain. The first warning was the darkening horizon; then came warm, humid air and the unmistakable smell of rain before the pavement changed color. Drops struck the visor, water began streaming sideways, and smooth inputs suddenly mattered more than pace. A motorcycle offers no climate-controlled separation from weather. Wet finds the jacket collar, heat radiates from the road, and rain announces every mile against helmet and gloves. That exposure is part of the bargain, and part of the memory.
Morning temperatures generally lived between 48 and 60 degrees. By afternoon, some days finished between 83 and 97. Heated grips could be welcome before breakfast; hours later, standing on the pegs for airflow could feel equally necessary. The ride crossed seasons without ever leaving the day.
Rivers Below, Bridges Between
Water gave the mountains another dimension. From high canyon roads, rivers appeared far below, snaking around rock walls like silver threads. Sometimes the water vanished behind a fold in the canyon only to reappear miles later. Then the road would begin descending corner by corner,
elevation disappearing until river and pavement finally met at the canyon's low point.
Those crossings were brief but powerful. A bridge would arrive at the close intersection of road, rock, and water, and for a few seconds the motorcycle seemed suspended in the canyon. Cooler air rose from below. The river could be heard beneath the engine. Then the far bank arrived, the road climbed again, and before long that same water was once more hundreds of feet below. It made the geography physical: the ride was not merely crossing a map, but moving vertically through the landscape.
New Mexico: The Landscape Changes Its Language
Returning toward Taos, New Mexico changed the vocabulary of the ride. Colorado's alpine greens and granite gave way to red rock, mesas, volcanic formations, adobe, broad horizons, and high desert. The light became warmer. The land looked older. Even the air seemed to carry different scents: sage, dry earth, pine in the higher elevations, and warmth near the Rio Grande.
From the Taos base, NM 522, NM 515, NM 378 and NM 38 led toward Questa and Red River, where an old mining town now wears the wonderfully funky personality of a mountain recreation community. An out-and-back on NM 578 pushed deeper into a narrow, forested valley before the road returned to NM 38, climbed Bobcat Pass at roughly 9,800 feet, and opened dramatically into Moreno Valley, Eagle Nest, and Eagle Nest Lake.
US 64 then entered Cimarron Canyon, where volcanic rock, forest, and the Cimarron River squeeze the road into a corridor made for motorcycles. The Palisades Sill rises as a wall of igneous rock beside the route, a reminder that geology wrote the first chapter of this country long before anyone laid pavement across it. Palo Flechado Pass later added another high crossing to a New Mexico landscape that could change character several times in a single day.
History You Can Feel
The West does not keep its history behind museum glass. It sits beside the road, beneath the pavement and inside the names on highway signs.
Los Alamos is perhaps the most powerful example. The Pajarito Plateau and surrounding mountains are beautiful enough to quiet a helmet, yet this isolated landscape became the secret center of the Manhattan Project. Knowing the history is one thing; riding through the place where scientists gathered to create the first atomic weapons is another. The remoteness suddenly makes sense. Beauty and consequence occupy the same view, and the power of that history can be felt almost in the bones.
Elsewhere, the names pull other chapters forward. Kit Carson is inseparable from the complicated story of the nineteenth-century West and from Taos, where he lived for many years. Cimarron recalls the Santa Fe Trail, the Maxwell Land Grant, frontier commerce and the St. James Hotel, whose guest list once included lawmen, soldiers, travelers and outlaws. The hoped-for visit found the hotel closed, but even standing in Cimarron makes the frontier feel considerably less distant.
The High Road to Taos passes communities such as Chimayo and Truchas and near Picuris Pueblo, carrying centuries of Indigenous and Hispanic history through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Taos itself layers Taos Pueblo, Spanish colonial settlement, artists, ranchers and travelers into one remarkable place. Jemez country and Valles Caldera tell an even older story: volcanic forces on a scale so large that a motorcycle crossing the enormous grass-filled caldera feels momentarily like a moving speck on a geological clock.
The West Is More Than a Postcard
The communities along the route were as varied as the terrain. There were funky mountain towns with weathered storefronts, motorcycles parked along main streets, old mining character and unexpected cafés. There were affluent resort communities where extraordinary homes occupied extraordinary views. And there were villages and settlements where older vehicles, modest homes, and worn buildings suggested lives shaped by fewer resources and harder choices.
Those contrasts deserve more than a passing glance. The same afternoon could move from polished resort wealth to a community where people appeared to be getting by with very little. No traveler passing through can know the circumstances behind another person's life, but the juxtaposition creates pause. Mountains do not distribute opportunity evenly. Neither does history. The road offers the privilege of seeing both beauty and reality without pretending they are the same thing.
The Quiet Brotherhood of Miles
A group of accomplished riders eventually develops a language that requires very few words. A slight change in road position communicates intent. A hand points toward gravel or wildlife. Space opens before a technical corner. The line stretches through switchbacks and naturally gathers when the road relaxes. Skill creates predictability; predictability creates trust; and over hundreds of miles, trust becomes a quiet bond.
For hours, personalities can almost disappear behind helmets and riding gear. There are simply motorcycles flowing together through the landscape, each rider responsible for the line ahead and aware of the rider behind. Helmet communicators add another layer: an observation about a landmark, a warning, a joke, a quick check that everyone is together, but much of the relationship is built without conversation at all.
Then the engines stop. Helmets come off, and the people inside them return. Around dinner tables and parking lots emerge professionals, families, opinions, humor, old adventures, and the day's stories retold from different positions in the group.
Then the engines stop. Helmets come off, and the people inside them return. Around dinner tables and parking lots emerge professionals, families, opinions, humor, old adventures, and the day's stories retold from different positions in the group. The rider who was nearly silent for two hundred miles may become the storyteller of the evening. By morning, the gear goes back on, the engines start, and the group becomes a moving organism again.
Behind the Visor
This is why motorcycle travel is difficult to explain to someone who has never experienced it. Inside a car, scenery passes outside the glass. Behind a visor, the rider passes through it.
A river twists through a canyon far below, then suddenly runs beneath the tires on a bridge at the bottom. Pine and aspen fill the helmet. The temperature drops and rises with elevation. A harmless cloud becomes a mountain storm. Rain hammers the visor, then sunlight breaks through and reveals a blue so deep it seems painted behind the peaks. Colorado forest becomes New Mexico desert. A wealthy mountain enclave gives way to an old village. A roadside name, Los Alamos, Taos, Cimarron opens a door into American history.
And always, somewhere ahead, the pavement disappears around another corner.
That is the adventure: not knowing exactly what the road will reveal when the motorcycle gets there. Perhaps another pass. Perhaps a river. Perhaps an abandoned mining structure, a strange piece of folk art, a tiny town, a centuries-old community, or a place where history changed the world. Perhaps nothing more than an empty stretch of exceptional pavement beneath an enormous western sky.
But on a motorcycle, even nothing can become something worth remembering. There is no glass separating the rider from the experience. You see the landscape. You smell it. You hear it. You feel the heat, cold, altitude and rain. You feel the motorcycle settle into the next corner and the silent presence of trusted riders behind and ahead of you. Occasionally, in a place where something important happened long before you arrived, you can almost feel the history itself.
Then the road bends again. The motorcycle leans. The horizon moves. And the adventure continues. As a kid, I dreamed of riding a motorcycle. I never imagined it would become a passport to adventure, a bridge to extraordinary friendships, and a lifelong reminder that the most meaningful journeys aren't about where the road takes you; they are about who you become along the way, the friends that you experience it with, and the memories that will last a lifetime.
My Journey to the MOA Vermont Vibes Rally
By John Sires
I left on May 31st for my ride to the MOA Rally via a few detours. It took a few days riding to arrive in Kingsport, Tennessee to visit Hank and Linda. Hank and I met when we were in the US Air Force, and we have stayed in contact with each other over the years. My second visit was with Bob and Sue in Honey Brook, Pennsylvania. Bob and I worked at the same company for many years. It was great catching up with these friends on how they were doing. At the Springfield, Missouri MOA Rally in 2021 I met Steve as we camped next to each other. We exchanged our contact information, and earlier this year I asked if he was going to the Vermont MOA Rally, Steve lives in Maryland, and he confirmed he was going to the rally in Vermont. Steve has attended many MOA Rally’s over the years, and met other MOA members, and exchanged contact information. I met Steve and five other MOA members in Utica, NY. We rode together for two days riding in Upstate New York enjoying the ride and scenery. We arrived at Essex Junction, Vermont for the Rally on Thursday morning setting up our tents in one area secured by Jerome who arrived a day early as a rally volunteer.
I said good bye to the guys Sunday morning and headed to Michigan via Ontario, Canada. I visited Dan and Jackie in Mackinaw City. Dan was my best man at our wedding when Marilyn and I got married. I then rode down to Harbor Springs to visit with John and Joan. John and I worked together. I then headed over to my sister and her husband in Lake City. My last stop in Michigan was visiting my niece and her husband in the Detroit Metro area.
I decided to get back home by Sunday, June 21st, and made it.
I got to see old friends, new friends, and family on this ride. I visited two Civil War battle sites in Vicksburg, Mississippi and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. I enjoyed the cool weather in the North, and how green the scenery was everywhere. In Canada folks asked me if I really rode my bike from Texas.
I have already registered for the 2027 Rally in Montana.
Hill Country: Ideal for Two Wheeled Texas Touring
If your idea of a great time involves two wheels, a full tank, and the kind of curves that make your GPS blush, welcome to the Texas Hill Country—where motorcycles outnumber minivans and scenic overlooks double as soul-recharging stations.
Nestled smack dab in the heart of Texas, this legendary landscape lures riders from all corners of the map. Why? Because it’s got everything a biker dreams of: winding backroads that whisper sweet nothings to your throttle, highland switchbacks that test your mettle (and your brakes), and panoramic views that’ll make you pull over just to say “dang.”
Add in a lineup of charming Western towns where the coffee’s strong, locals wave with two fingers, and the roadside attractions range from quirky to “is that a giant squirrel?”—and you’ve got yourself a ride worth writing home about. No wonder this part of Texas hosts five of the top seven motorcycle routes in Texas, according to GreatMotorcycleRoads.com. The other two are probably just jealous.
So grab your helmet, channel your inner cowboy, and saddle up. The Hill Country is calling—and it left a voicemail that said y’all better bring extra gas and a camera.
Late Bloomer, Full Throttle: My Hill Country Two-Wheel Baptism
Some people buy a rocking chair at 64. I bought a rocket ship on two wheels.
With a lifelong love for the open road and a stubborn streak that could outlast a Texas summer, I decided it was time to experience the Hill Country the way it was meant to be seen: seated on a motorcycle. So, I marched into BMW of Denver and rolled out with a 2019 K 1600 B—an elegant beast that purrs like a panther and weighs about as much as a baby elephant.
There was just one small hitch: I had no motorcycle license, no training, and no clue what I was doing. But I had something better—friends. The kind who leap at the chance to ride 900 miles just to say, “Here’s your new bike, good luck!” And so, my Bavarian beauty was delivered to my Hill Country doorstep like a very large, very fast Christmas present.
Since then, I’ve carved through limestone canyons, glided past bluebonnet fields, and tackled switchbacks with the grace of a caffeinated gazelle—all in the company of the San Antonio BMW Riders Association, a proud Charter Club of the BMW Motorcycle Owners Association. These folks have become my road family, my riding mentors, and occasionally, my roadside therapists.
It’s been a wild ride. And I wouldn’t trade a single mile.
Twisted Sisters and Twisted Nerves: Riding the Hill Country’s Crown Jewel
The Texas Hill Country—where elevation changes faster than your mood on Monday and the views stretch farther than your last road trip playlist—is a motorcyclist’s playground carved by nature and paved by legends. Stretching west from San Antonio to the south and Austin to the north, this limestone-laced land is dotted with cattle ranches, sleepy towns, and natural springs that look like they were designed by a very chill cowboy with a flair for scenic drama.
But let’s talk about the real reason your throttle hand starts twitching: the Three Sisters, also known as the Twisted Sisters (because “Mildly Curvy Cousins” didn’t make the cut). This trio of Ranch Roads—RR 335, RR 336, and RR 337—form a 100-mile loop of pure, unfiltered adrenaline. Starting in Medina, just south of Kerrville, the route slithers through Vanderpool, Leakey, and Camp Wood like a caffeinated rattlesnake with a GPS.
It’s got everything: switchbacks that make your tires question their life choices, sweeping curves that flirt with your lean ang
le, and cliff-hugging descents that whisper, “Hope your brakes are feeling lucky today.” The views? Panoramic enough to make you forget you’re riding a machine weighing nearly what your neighbor’s pickup does.
This ride is technical, thrilling, and occasionally terrifying—in the best possible way. It’s a roller coaster without seatbelts, a scenic route with a side of “Did I just see my life flash before my visor?” So, before you saddle up, make sure your insurance is current, your nerves are steady, and your sense of adventure is fully primed.
Because in the Hill Country, the roads don’t just take you places—they test your mettle and reward your foolhardiness.
Fuel for the Soul (and Stomach): Dining Along the Hill Country’s Twisted Trails
Let’s be honest—riding the Twisted Sisters isn’t just about conquering switchbacks and flexing your lean angle. It’s also about knowing where to park your bike, unbuckle your helmet, and feed the beast (your stomach, not your engine).
First stop: Frio Canyon Motorcycle Stop and Bent Rim Grill in Leakey. This place is basically the unofficial clubhouse of the Sisters loop. It’s got everything a rider could want—good grub, cold drinks, gear to replace the stuff you forgot, and souvenirs to prove you survived the ride. It’s also the perfect spot to swap stories, stretch your legs, and pretend you didn’t just white-knuckle RR 336.
Just down the road is Bear’s Market, a charming little shop selling gifts, novelties, and the kind of knickknacks you didn’t know you needed until you saw them. But the real treasure is tucked behind it: Bear’s Den, where you can grab a hearty meal and a drink while pondering whether your tires are still round.
Willow City Wiggles and Roadhouse Rewards
Now, if your idea of a ride is less adrenaline-fueled canyon carving and more scenic cruise with a side of serenity, then the Willow City Loop is your jam. Just north of Fredericksburg, this 13-mile stretch is a slow-paced stunner—rolling hills, dry riverbeds, and ranch lands that look like they were painted by a patriotic armadillo. The road narrows at cattle guards and low water crossings, and yes, you might encounter livestock. Or an ostrich. Because it’s Texas after all.
At the end of the loop, Texas 16 guides you back toward Fredericksburg and straight into the welcoming arms of the Pecan Grove Store. Once a Sinclair gas station (yes, the one with the big green dinosaur), it’s now a roadside roadhouse serving up legendary half-pound Dino burgers, cold brews, and live country music. Picnic tables, friendly faces, and the kind of atmosphere that makes you want to stay awhile—even if your bike’s already itching to roll.
From Twists to Tastes: Riding Texas 16 with a Side of Cowboy and Cabernet
One of my favorite rides kicks off in Kerrville and heads south on Texas 16 toward Bandera, the self-proclaimed “Cowboy Capital of the World”—and let me tell you, they’re not shy about it. This stretch of road is a motorcyclist’s dream: semi-desert foliage, oak-covered hills, and curves so tight they could double as plot twists. Add a few river crossings and you’ve got yourself a ride that’s scenic, spicy, and just unpredictable enough to keep your knuckles white and your grin wide.
Roll into Bandera and you might think you’ve stumbled into a Western movie set—minus the tumbleweeds and plus a lot more barbecue. Gunfight reenactments? Check. Weekly rodeos? You bet. Live country music every night? Of course. It’s like the Wild West got a Spotify playlist and a tourism board. Don’t miss the Frontier Times Museum, where relics and artifacts from yesteryear tell tales of grit, glory, and questionable fashion choices. And when hunger hits, TJ’s at the Old Forge serves up hearty meals and sports on TV—because nothing says cowboy like nachos and a touchdown.
Heading back to Kerrville on the same road somehow feels different—maybe it’s the change in light, maybe it’s the lingering scent of brisket, or maybe it’s just the magic of the Hill Country doing its thing.
But if you think the ride ends there, think again. Just a short hop away is Fredericksburg, the German-founded gem that proves Texas can do schnitzel and wine just as well as it does rodeos and ribs. This town is bursting with charm, culture, and enough activities to make your itinerary beg for mercy. History buffs, don’t miss the National Museum of the Pacific War—a sobering, powerful tribute to WWII’s Pacific theater, complete with planes, submarines, and veteran’s war stories that stick with you longer than a sunburn.
And for those who prefer their adventures fermented, welcome to Texas Wine Country—the second largest grape-growing region in the U.S. With over 100 wineries, many of them award-winning, you can sip your way through scenic vineyards and pretend you’re sophisticated (even if you arrived in leather chaps). Add in year-round festivals, live music, and art events, and you’ve got a destination that’s as full-bodied as the wine.
Because in the Hill Country, it’s never just about the journey. It’s about the stops that make you want to stay a little longer—and maybe come back with a bigger saddlebag.
Hill Country Highways and Honky-Tonk Hideaways: A Rider’s Guide to Texas Bliss
Let’s get one thing straight: if you roll into Fredericksburg and don’t make a detour to Luckenbach, you’re doing it wrong. With a population of three and a vibe that’s pure laid-back legend, Luckenbach is where time slows down, boots tap to live country music (played nearly every day), and everyone’s “somebody.” Once a ghost town, it was revived in 1970 by Hondo Crouch and Guich Koock, then immortalized by Waylon Jennings in “Luckenbach Texas (Back to the Basics of Love).” Today, it’s a magnet for bikers, dreamers, and anyone who appreciates a cold beer and a good tune under the Texas sky.
Just down US 280 lies Johnson City, home of President Lyndon B. Johnson and his Western White House. But for two-wheel fanciers, the real gem is the Texas Vintage Motorcycle Museum—a shrine to chrome and craftsmanship. Housed in a lovingly restored 1930s Model A Ford showroom, it boasts over 120 pristine cycles from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Ask owner Gordon Massie nicely, and he might just give you a personal tour. Bonus points if you compliment the original ceiling tiles.
Further south, tucked near Vanderpool, is Utopia—a one-horse town with a five-star soul. It’s the perfect spot to picnic, fish, float the Sabinal River, or play a round of golf while pretending you’re in a movie (because you are—“Seven Days in Utopia” was filmed here). Refuel at Lost Maples Café, where the chicken fried steak is legendary, the lamb sliders are divine, and the burgers are Texas-sized, just like your appetite. Then head up the road to Lost Maples State Park, where the maples aren’t actually lost—they’re just really good at hide-and-seek.
Back in Kerrville, the gateway to the Hill Country, you’ll find a town that’s equal parts charm and adventure. Its lively downtown is packed with galleries, boutiques, and cafes, while Kerrville-Schreiner Park along the Guadalupe River offers camping, fishing, tubing, and canoeing. It’s also the proud host of the San Antonio BMW Riders Association’s 9th Annual Hill Country Hangout, happening April 17–19, 2026. Mark your calendar and check out sabmwra.org for details.
But before you fire up your bike, a few pro tips from the road:
- Fuel up often: Gas stations are as rare as a polite armadillo.
- Bring paper maps: Cell service is spotty.
- Watch for wildlife: Deer at dusk, javelinas with a death wish, and the occasional rogue ostrich.
- Ride smart: Spring (March–May) and Fall (October–November) are prime time—wildflowers bloom, temps cool, and crowds thin.
The Texas Hill Country is more than a place to ride, it’s a motorcyclist’s nirvana, whether you're chasing adrenaline or enjoying winding curves that reveal a new adventure. Come prepared to experience the thrill of leaning into a curve on RR 337, the joy of discovering a quaint roadside diner, and the enjoyment of watching a sunset over the hills from a quiet overlook. So, fire up your bike, pack your gear, and experience for yourself why this is one of America’s most beloved motorcycle destinations and why the Hill Country Hangout is held here each year.
