Kelly’s Korner: Have Coffee, Will Ride
Last Updated: November 30th, 2020
In my world, motorcycling does not happen sans coffee — espresso, really. I have a slight addiction. This month, talk to me about some of your most memorable coffee experiences while on the road. Here are three of mine:
The first was during my inaugural solo trip, leaving Flagstaff early on the second morning. I was about to head north on the 89, yet didn’t feel hungry so coffee with breakfast wasn’t an option. Coffee itself, however, was necessary (when is it not?). But I didn’t want to make a lengthy stop and I was not going to stoop to Starbucks. (Give me local, independent, unique coffee over over-roasted, mass-market predictability any day. Yeah, I’m that person.) So I found a parking lot coffee kiosk on my way out of Flagstaff. And if memory serves, I downed a double shot before dumping a triple-shot latte into the bladder of my Camelbak. Hey, a girl needs fuel in her tank and in her system. I remember riding into the sunrise, delighted to be drinking coffee while riding. Of course, I’d pay later. Unable to fully flush the coffee from the bladder, I had to endure the flavor of espresso-tainted Vitamin B Energy Water. Mmmmm. Lesson not learned, though. I’ve repeated the espresso-in-Camelbak antic more than once. This reminds me that I have ruined said Camelbak bladder and need to order a new one before the weather gets much warmer. Because, you know, it’s important to drink water, too.
Another time, I was riding home from Colorado with a bunch of dudes. We had left a Kawasaki ZRX rally in South Fork and ridden down Wolf Creek Pass before the sun hit the pavement; ice was still on the road and foraging deer threatened to run out in front of us (and a buck did, in front of our friends driving a giant Dodge. That truck’s front end was gone. And so was the deer.) By the time we reached the little town at the bottom of the pass, we were all in dire need of breakfast and a coffee booster. The only open restaurant was a Victorian tea house. We parked our bikes and in we went. Picture this: several men and me, geared up in full leathers and boots, carrying helmets and gloves, seated at tables dotted with doilies, flowers, silver flatware and fine china. It was all very dainty and civilized, unlike us. Never have I sipped my coffee with such care. I don’t even remember how it tasted, just that I was terrified of somehow breaking the teacup.
My third coffee-and-riding story has yet to reach a conclusion. (That will only come about when I’m dead.) I like to go to the Total Control Track Clinics at Willow Springs in California whenever I can. Problem is, good coffee in the Palmdale-Lancaster-Rosamond areas does not seem to exist, especially when one has to be at the track by 6:30 a.m. And the hotel coffee is a weak, watery, offensive excuse for caffeine.
The answer? A travel French press with a screw-in cup for storing or measuring out coffee. I grind fresh beans at home, package them in a travel-size airtight container (oh yes, this happens), find the hot water dispenser in the hotel dining room and voila, thick, strong nectar of life that carries me through the day.A single burner camping stove also has been known to sneak into the back of the car, ready to heat coffee water for me at the track; sadly, though, the wind at Horsethief Mile tends to kick up too high for the burner to cooperate. But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying.
There you have it, some of my motorcycling-related coffee outtakes. Share yours with me, and ride awake!
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