![]() ![]() She wore a black leather vest over a form-fitting white t-shirt. Her tall, high-heeled leather boots came up over her fashionable, strategically ripped jeans to her thighs. She wore blue eyeshadow and dark, menacing eyeliner. She must have been sixty or so and probably six feet tall. Even the bandana around the wrinkled skin of her neck was purposefully positioned for show and a modicum of protection from the elements. Everything about her spoke of hard-earned experience: her stately carriage, her deliberate gestures, the lines at her eyes, her well-muscled body, the extra pounds around her middle. Next to her ferocious iron horse, my 650 looked like a gentle, dirty pony. Given the weight and height of my bike and the length of my legs – my legs are long, but my GS is very tall for off-road clearance over rocks and branches – these kinds of maneuvers have always been tough for me.Īs I wrestled with my bike and tried to back it uphill, my tiptoes slipping on the loose gravel, a tall blonde woman expertly commanded her loud, gigantic, shiny metallic cobalt blue Harley into the parking spot next to mine. It would have toppled onto me here if I tried to lower the stand down onto the uneven, low ground. The spaces here sloped down and away, loose gravel canting down at odd angles to a railroad tie perimeter making it difficult for me to let my bike down onto its side stand. ![]() ![]() I struggled to park in the dirt lot at Hell’s Backbone Grill, Boulder, Utah. ![]()
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