A motorcycle ride through the mountains – and mind

The lightning couldn't have been too far away, because the thunder fell around our shoulders and across our motorcycles like boulders. Our rainbow of rainsuits seemed smeared as we stood in the dim mountain light. Nervous eyes scanned the sky. Our silence seemed louder than the thunder.

We'd left from LaCrosse, Wis., many days before and were now at the last stop before our ascent of the Yellowstone Rockies, headed for Red Lodge, a small mountain community in southeastern Montana.

My husband, Chris, and I had chosen a group touring class for early August, open to motorcycle riding instructors. Skill evaluations were made on group riding, group leading, mountain riding, and peer teaching. Twelve riders had come from across the United States to participate. I was the only woman riding her own bike.

Behind us was rain-slick pavement. Eight miles of road construction with mud holes and careless trucks and pine limbs.

Ahead were rain-washed switchbacks – corkscrew curves that leave you where you started only 30 feet higher, that whip across the mountain like a tortured snake. Ahead were mudslides oozing slime across the asphalt. Ahead was the just-shy-of-11,000-feet summit of Beartooth Pass. And it was my turn to lead.

As tour leader, responsibilities run from mapping the route, to scanning the road for hazards, to making sure stops are well-timed. After the ride settles down for the day, you can assume any position in the pack you choose. Or so I thought.

As morning moved to afternoon, I was exhausted and decided to give the lead to someone else. Our instructor's "no" was firm. I was to lead all the way to Red Lodge. No one else had been made to lead that long! My "OK" was sullen. My thoughts were cold.

Leaving Cody, Wyo., at 10 that morning, we had ridden 30 incredible miles to the east entrance of Yellowstone National Park. Perfect riding weather. Chilly and clear with the mountains cutting the blue sky like dark diamonds.

"This tour leading's not so bad," I thought. "I'm doing OK. Tired, but OK."

That was before the rain and lightning.

Nothing like rain on a motorcycle to let you know you're alive. The road surface in Yellowstone is as varied as its wildlife. But when it rains, it all looks the same – oily and treacherous.

Nothing like lightning to make you wish you'd never thought about motorcycle riding. Clouds like bruises rolled across the peaks as silvery bolts darted and struck.

The Beartooth Highway was still before us. The late Charles Kuralt described it for CBS as "the most beautiful drive in America." Sixty-nine miles of pristine peaks and alpine meadows. But climb on a motorcycle and run it in the rain and you'll be talking ugly before you're through.

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