The Motorcyclist Cafe Bunkhouse and Barn. Getting there is half the fun!

After a harrowing mini-adventure down a slick gravel road, which again, half of the group enjoyed, Dark Meat Snack and I finally arrived as guests of Dean and Pam, proud founders of the Motorcyclist Cafe Bunkhouse and Barn.

Good guests don’t show up empty handed. And while it’s debatable if our merry little band of miscreants can actually be considered ‘good’ guests, at least I didn’t show up empty handed.

Before the trip started, I made Pam and Dean an unofficial proclamation claiming them as ‘Honorary Subjects of the Kingdom of Rhode Island.’

The Bunkhouse is an amazing place. Dean, who built almost the entire thing himself, gave us the tour, filling us in on its fascinating history at the same time.

Dean and Pam – Two Fine Human Beings and Good Friends

Dean and Pam bought this land sight unseen, and have turned it from some barren wilderness into a beautiful home. The entire compound is ‘off the grid,’ completely solar powered and completely self sufficient.

We sat down to a feast of epic proportions, and as fast as the piles of food went down, the piles of bullshit grew. The four of us stayed up very late telling stories and laughing. The best part of the Bunkhouse? Without question, MZ Pam’s killer pies!!!

I know we toast the Best Day Ever all the time, but, in my long history of motorcycling around the globe, this honestly was the absolute Best Day Ever!

Dark Meat Snack and I settled into the serenity of the Bunkhouse, and quickly fell fast asleep.

Or at least he did. The chainsaw-like snoring reverberating through the Bunkhouse kept me wide awake. Earplugs didn’t help. Moving to the couch didn’t help. More beer didn’t help. I thought about putting a pillow over his head and pushing down until the snoring stopped, and was about to actually do it when, miraculously, the most annoying sound ever stopped on its own.

The next morning, before breakfast, Dean took us on a tour of the property, showing us examples of Mz Pam’s amazing stone work.

During breakfast, or I should say another fantastic spread laid on by the lovely Mz. Pam, we watched The Weather Channel. Mother Nature’s mood: Cantankerous. Reports of bad weather approaching the area gave the weather-heads fits of glee. We decided to leave before Ma Nature turned the gravel road into soup.

With some quick hugs and promises for a return, we posed for a group photo then headed back out on the road.

We made it back to the main road in hurry-up mode, wanting to stay ahead of the cold front. Happily, I switched on the iPod and settled in for a nice back road cruise through Arizona and into New Mexico.

Suddenly, I noticed something was wrong. Very wrong. The Dark Meat Snoring Wonder, normally filling my entire rear view mirror, was nowhere to be found. I pulled over and waited a few minutes for him to catch up.

Nothing.

Spider-sense tingling, I quickly turned around, fearing the worst. Dean had warned us about elk in the area, and I feared that a sneaky vegetarian elk might have sensed another vegetarian biker and jumped out in the road to greet him.

The problem wasn’t quite that bad, but it was pretty bad. Somehow, Snowball’s rear brake did its job a bit too well, locking up solid and making forward motion impossible.

Abi had already called Dean, who was on his way. Within seconds, as usually seems to happen when a motorcycle has a problem, someone pulled over to offer assistance.

The guy’s name was Bruce, a painter, musician and rider from nearby. He told us there was a Kawasaki dealership in town, and offered to unload his truck – currently full of manure – and help us take Snowball to the doctor’s office.

Dean showed up a few minutes later with some tools. He brushed everyone aside, diagnosed the problem and almost immediately fixed it.

I must confess I know more about quantum physics than I do about motorcycle mechanics. I know where the gas goes. I know how many tires there should be, and where they attach to the bike. I also know you’re supposed to change the air in the tires once a week, but I only do it about once every month. What can I say, I’m lazy. Thankfully Dean knows as much about motorcycle mechanics as he does about home building. He came out, turned a wrench, and calamity instantly changed into a comedy.

Then, being the consummate gentleman, our new friend tested Snowball by making a few WFO passes.

And with that, we hit the road for real, heading southeast towards the Enchanted Land of New Mexico.

And we rolled just in the nick of time, because Mother Nature’s mood changed from cantankerous to downright cranky in almost an instant.

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Author: frenchy