Dog Days of Winter by Steve Goatley

New Year’s Eve for most includes getting together with friends, champagne, noisemakers, ridiculous hats, and in some neighborhoods, fully automatic weapons aimed at the sky in anticipation of the passing of yet another year. The following day usually consists of holding down the couch, watching football, and nursing the hangover earned the night before.

For myself, a whole new tradition was born a year ago when I was invited to join up with some riding buddies of mine to take part in this little get-together they lovingly called "THE BIG DOG RIDE". Being my "rookie" season last year with the "dogs", it was explained that there is really only one basic fact one need remember. You either show up January One ready to ride in almost any weather condition mother nature might hurl your way, or for the following calendar year, be likened to that little shivering puppy you see selling "Gorditas" for Taco Bell.

Last year it was "El Nino" who influenced the weather and made all the headlines. This winter, at least in the desert southwest, it’s been his kinder and warmer sister "La Nina". A string of 50 degree days through December had given me hope that this year’s ride could be made sans snowmobile suit. That very New Year’s Eve afternoon I’d washed the bike in the driveway, absorbing the abundant warmth from above.

After final prep that evening, I was fairly confident that my leather jacket (no liner), some faded jeans, and a light sweater would serve me well for the following day’s ride.

7:00 the next morning found me riffling through my chest of drawers for my thermal underwear. Just earlier, after showering and getting dressed, I had ventured outside to get a look at the weather. That’s when I was blind sided by that old bully "El Nino". He was back for what would be a one day return performance.

With jacket liner installed, a fresh coat of scotchgard for the jeans, and ski-gloves stashed in tank bag, I pushed the choke lever on, and pressed the starter button. The bike rumbled to life and in a few minutes I was headed for the rendezvous point, "Hurricanes" restaurant at Eubank and Candelaria. This biker friendly café has great food, and has been the lift-off site for many a Sunday ride as well as last year’s "Big Dog". I was first to arrive and as I stepped in the door with helmet in hand, I noticed most eyes were on me. I knew what they were thinking. WHAT KIND OF IDIOT WOULD RIDE HIS MOTORCYCLE ON A DAY LIKE TODAY! This kind of idiot I guess. After all, this was just a passing storm and by the time we leave it will have moved out. Might even have to take the thermal-liner out of the jacket, ….right?

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One and a half cups of coffee later (about 20 min.), I spotted my friend Chris Porter’s bright yellow K-100RS pull up next to my now already cold Bandit 1200. As he approached, I could see in his eyes what he was thinking."What the hell happened to the weather!" That sentiment would be echoed by most who followed.

One by one the numbers rose, until the final count of 17 bikes were in place and ready to strike out. Fewer than last year, but not a whiner in the bunch.

By now the temperature had decreased 10 degrees, the wind had increased by 10 m.p.h., and a look eastward at the Sandia Mountains confirmed that the snow had already begun to fall.

As we made our way towards the interstate, the pack almost immediately splintered into two groups due to uncooperative traffic lights. It would be 40 miles later before we would be reunited. Making our way through Tijeras Canyon found our crew navigating around and between 18-wheelers in a mixture of rain and snow. No funny business here. As we peeled off the interstate I think we could all see what was in store for us. More snow, rain, and now ever-increasing crosswinds. This particular stretch of southbound N.M. State Rd.337(south 14 to the locals) has long been a favorite gathering place for the knee-draggin crowd. Though now wet, the well-paved twisties were as yet, not icy, but those of us who have lived around these parts for awhile knew that could change in short order. I for one was making promises to a higher being that it would not. About 30 miles later the blowing snow and rain had subsided, but the wind and cold persisted.

...Bernadette, was still perched upon the back of his RF-900 looking more like an ice sculpture...

Having made it to the turnoff to our first scheduled stop of Mountainair N.M., we were hoping to see the rest of the "dog pack" waiting there for us. They weren’t. Were they ahead or behind us? Our gang was well behind the lead pack and had taken a slightly different route in hopes of reeling them in. As it would later be known, we had gotten in front of them when we opted for the freeway, and they, the older and lesser-used Rt. 66. Deciding to wait for a bit, we dismounted and noticed that what only a short-time ago had been friend Richard Watt’s girlfriend Bernadette, was still perched upon the back of his RF-900 looking more like an ice sculpture than the warm human-being we know her to be.

Mumbling something about not being able to feel her legs and fingers, I hightailed it to my bike to retrieve my rainsuit bottoms from the tankbag. Richard had rubbed some feeling back into her lower appendages (my offer to do same was politely declined), and with some help we lowered her into my men’s x-large rainsuit trousers. Another donation of some glove liners and we felt certain she could make it the 25 miles where steaming hot coffee and breakfast would work wonders.

By now the rest of the pack had caught up and with all accounted for, we descended on the Ancient Cities Café, the only coffee house open in Mountainair on New Year’s Day. As some of us had already eaten breakfast earlier that morning and opted for coffee only, others were refueling on huevos w/green chile, slices of crisp bacon, and hot-buttered toast. Circulation was returning, toes were thawing out, and by now the sun was even popping out with major sightings of blue skies above and to the west. It seemed all was right again. But something amiss was in the air. What had began with muffled curiosity about where we were next headed, became audible grumbling of mutiny. For what ever reason, some (most) had decided they’d had enough, and opted to head for the kennel. But some, led by Big Dog co-founders Steve Roe (replete with broken foot and crutches lashed to the back of his R-1100GS), and B.C. Nowlin, were making an argument for what they described as the "traditional" route. That being a course set towards Carrizozo, N.M. and beyond. Perhaps back into harm’s way as the skies to the south looked dark and ominous. Serving as "cub reporter" for Southwest Bike Magazine that day, my duty was clear. Re-fuel, mount, and follow messrs Roe and Nowlin into the breach

B.C. had set a torrid pace for the next leg. Three digit readings on the speedo were to be the norm for the next 80 miles or so. This stretch of seemingly deserted highway consisted of a series of ninety degree jogs at the end of long straight-aways punctuated by rollercoaster-like elevation changes. I actually got "air" after leaving the crest of one of the more defined rollers. Visions of Joey Dunlop at the Isle of Mann danced through my head. I’m "runnin’ with the big dogs" and having a great time of it.

About that time a cross-wind grabbed me and the big Suzuki and proceeded to move me precariously close to road’s edge. End of day-dream, hello reality. Bike and mind firmly planted at ground level, we approached Carrizozo. The snow-clad mountains surrounding adjacent Ruidoso, N.M., and the ever-darkening skies ahead told the story. The high winds we’d fought all day were unrelenting, and we were still under a "winter advisory".

After topping off the tanks and relaxing at the aptly named "Four Winds Restaurant" for a bit, we aimed our trusty steeds westward on N.M. 380. This route took us through a stretch called the "Valley of Fires", named I assume for the sharp-edged lava rock which lined the both sides of the road for many miles. Definitely wouldn’t want to leave the road at speed here! Up the road apiece was the entrance to the northern most reaches of White Sands Testing Range, home to Trinity Site. Can you say "Atomic Bomb"? Twice a year they open the gates to the public for a GUIDED tour. Not a whole lot to see, but when you consider what happened there some 53+ years ago, it (or maybe the latent radiation) makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Approaching San Antonio, N.M., I knew we would soon be embarking on the last leg of this year’s sojourn. After a quick pit stop and a photo session in front of the world famous "Owl Bar" we were again underway. A short burst up old highway 47 found us on the outskirts of Socorro, N.M. and soon headed due north on Interstate 25 towards Albuquerque. The wind wasn’t through with us yet. The next 70 miles or so would find us fighting head and cross-winds, not to mention dodging wobbling 18 wheelers and high profile SUV’s.

With the Sandia Mountains again in sight, the sun dropping below the horizon, and three-hundred plus miles logged on the odometer, a sense of fulfillment and accomplishment filled my psyche. Got a feeling all of those who participated in this years putt, (yes, even those who chose a different path) maybe felt the same. I’m told this year’s "Big Dog" was what the founding fathers had in mind. It had all the essential elements. Rain, snow, sleet, cold, wind. It was a true test. For the six other bowsers who with me took the traditional route that day, something else was clear. All dogs who showed up on this day were big, it’s just that some were bigger than others! RUFF RUFF !

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