01/01/2025
New Year’s Eve 1937: Genevieve “Gyp” Baker, Her husband Roy, and two friends, Willie Cox and Horace Sealing thought riding from Denver to Colorado Springs, and then to the top of Pike’s Peak sounded like a fine way to spend the day and bring in the New Year.
It’s important tot note here that back in the 1930’s, it was rare to see a woman on the back of a motorcycle, and for a girl to pilot her own ride was almost unheard of. Genevieve “Gyp” Baker was the exception to the rule. In fact, Gyp rarely drove a car or wore a dress, the exception being when she went to PTA meetings. Gyp practically raised her daughter, Joanne, on the back of her Indian Scout. Gyp was a member of the Motor Maids of America, and would ride to their national convention each year. In 1938 Gyp Baker won the 500 mile Denver Endurance Run beating out several expert male riders.
Add to all that the fact that no one had ever made the winter ascent on a motorcycle, and you have the makings of a damn good story.
What follows is an account of unbelievable motorcycle adventure and record setting ride. Gyp and her riding companions were the first people to ever complete the ascent to the summit of Pikes Peak on motorized vehicles on New Year’s Eve. After their trail-breaking ride the Pikes Peak “Snow Run” became an annual tradition through the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. What you are about to read is Gyp Baker’s account of that historic ride on December 31, 1937.
An Unusual New Year’s Eve
By Genevieve Baker
I came into the living room and joined Roy in front of the fireplace to enjoy the last of the warmth from the burning logs.
“Horace and Willie should be here by now,” I said.
“Here they come,” Roy replied, as we heard their motorcycles pull up in front.
We put our jackets and helmets on and hurried out the door to join them. Little did I realize, as I looked back at the glow from the dying embers, that in a few hours from now I would long for this cozy room and it’s warmth.
Willie said, “It’s sure cold tonight. Hope we are dressed warm enough.”
“I couldn’t ride my motorcycle if I had any more clothes,” Roy replied.
Horace asked if I’d put the new spark plugs in my motor and I answered, “Yes, she purrs like a kitten now.”
While our motors were warming up I glanced up at the sky, which was partly overcast. A few stars could be seen and the moon came from behind the clouds only to disappear again. I thought to myself, “It just can’t snow tonight.”
This was Denver, Colorado, New Year’s Eve, the year 1937. It was early evening and the dinner hour. The gaiety and parties that always accompany New Year’s Eve had not commenced, as the four of us, riding our motorcycles, rode down the street and out towards the highway leading to Colorado Springs. The highway was clear of snow and we made the 60 miles to the Springs, in good time. The thermometer hovered around 30 degrees above 0 and the cold wind bit at our faces.
I reached down occasionally and touched the motorcycle cylinders to warm my numb fingers.
Our stop in Colorado Springs was short, just long enough for coffee and a bite to eat and gas up the motorcycles. I was beginning to enjoy the warmth of the service station when Willie said, “Come on let’s get going; it’s pretty late.” And with that we headed toward Manitou Springs, and the Canyon that took us to the road leading to the top of Pikes Peak.
This adventure had begun several weeks before this night, when the motorcycle dealer had thrown out a challenge to our motorcycle club with the words, “I’ll bet twenty bucks there isn’t one of you guys can put a motorcycle on top of Pikes Peak New Year’s Eve.
We took it as a joke, and no one gave it much thought. Everyone knows the road up the Peak was closed in the winter and buried under heavy snow with bad drifts. It would be impossible to ride a motorcycle though them. Then one day Roy, Willie, Horace and I were in our garage working on our new motors. Willie began to chuckle and said, “We might just be able to get a motorcycle on the Peak New Year’s Eve.”
“Well I’m game to try,” came from Horace.
Roy said, “It’s sure a gamble but if you guys are going I’ll go along.”
I laughed and said, “You must be kidding. You could freeze up there.”
“There’s that possibility I suppose, but I doubt that any of us would.” Willie said.
“Well,” I said, “if you’re really serious, count me in, too. Guess we can wear enough clothes to keep warm.”
“I think we should make some face masks. Chamois skin would be good stuff to use.” Roy said, “We could freeze our faces.”
“Better take some rope and maybe a pole. No telling what it would be like up there.”
And so the work on the motorcycles was forgotten for the time being as we made our plans. We would leave as soon as possible, after work and dinner, on December 31.
And now we were on our way.
The snowplow had been through to Glen Cove so the canyon road was traveled without mishap, although the curves were icy in spots. All was dark as we passed the buildings there and rounded the bend where our headlights picked up the barrier across the road reading “closed.”
Horace, in the lead, took a quick survey and, putting his motor in low gear, made a trail around the barrier. It was easy to follow his tracks for a short distance. Then we all pitched in to get the first motorcycle through the huge drifts and determine where the road was. We fought the snow for several miles. Only eight miles from Glen Cove to the summit.
Could our strength and endurance possibly hold out against the odds we were battling?
I had slid into a drift, and while digging out, the other three had rounded the next curve. Suddenly I heard their motors shut off and in the cold, clear, air could hear their voices distinctly.
“Boy, what a drift. We will never ride through this one.”
“Look! It goes right to the edge of the canyon.”
“It’s going to take some doing to get a motorcycle across that. Sure glad we brought the rope.”
I soon caught up with them and, in the pale moonlight, looked with dismay at the mountain of snow and ice blocking our way.
We couldn’t give up now, although it looked hopeless. Willie walked up onto the drift. It was icy and in places he went through the crust, hip deep. It was finally decided to concentrate all our combined effort into getting one motorcycle across the slide and leave the others where they were, parked in the snow. Horace’s motorcycle was stripped down more than the others--bobbed fenders, no crash bars and not many extras, so his was chosen. Footholds were dug in the icy snow and one end of the rope tied securely to the motorcycle. The other end wrapped around the pole driven into the snow, and the motorcycle lay on its side. By moving the pole periodically and sliding the motor, we began to inch our way across the drift. About half-way across Willie hollered, “Hold everything – the motorcycle’s half over the edge”
There were a few tense moments as Willie held onto the motorcycle and the rest of us worked frantically to take up the slack on the rope. We finally worked the motorcycle back up onto the drift away from the edge. One slip would have been disastrous and all would have ended up down in the canyon.
I don’t know how long it took, but finally the drift was behind us. With a few kicks the motor sputtered, then started. Some gasoline and a little paint had been lost but no further damage was done. Horace riding and the three of us pushing and pulling, we managed another mile or so. The summit of Pikes Peak is 14,110 feet. As we climbed higher the air became more rarified and breathing more difficult. It was bitterly cold and we had to keep moving or freeze. We kept moving. The raw wind tore at our thoughts. By stamping our feet, our toes kept from going numb. Pushing and half carrying the motorcycle, progress was being made towards the top.
Roy shouted, “Happy New Year!”
We all stopped and looked up to see the sky lighted by fireworks. There is a club in Colorado Springs—the Ad-A-Man Club-- and the members hike up the trail from Manitou Springs, to the summit of Pikes Peak a couple of days before New Year’s. They stay in the summit house, and at the stroke of twelve on New Year’s Eve, shoot off fireworks. If it is a clear night the rockets can be seen for miles and it is quite a sight. Folks in the area still enjoy this yearly custom that was started in 1922.
I said, “Hurray! The summit house will be open and there will be a warm fire.”
So-now it was midnight, and from the distance of the rockets the summit was still a long way ahead.
“How far do you suppose it is on up to the top?” I asked.
“Can’t be more than a couple of miles. These mountains sure look different covered with snow and at night, than they do in the summer and in daylight, “Roy Replied.
“If the snow keeps getting deeper it will probably be a couple more hours, or better, before we see the top, no matter how much farther it is.” came from Horace.
“Well, let’s get the motorcycle going and out of this snow bank. The top will be that much closer and that warm fire sounds good,” Willie said.
So we pushed again and as the motorcycle lurched forward I slipped and fell. It was by no means the first time I’d slipped. We had all stumbled many times, only this time I didn’t want to get up. My legs didn’t want to move and besides, sitting there in the snow, the wind seemed less severe. Then I heard a commanding voice say, “Get on your feet.” I still couldn’t seem to make myself move. Then there were two strong arms on each side of me lifting me up and that same commanding voice said, “Now walk; come on, you have to walk.” Then I realized that Roy was on one side of me, and Willie on the other, propelling me along. The wind was blowing again, but I had my breath back and could walk by myself now.
We caught up with Horace and the motorcycle, stuck again in deep snow, and our battle with the elements started once more. The exhausting struggle of walking through drifts, and pushing the motorcycle, went on for another two hours. We had stopped momentarily to rest and Willie said, “I think we are pretty close to the summit. This is the last curve, I’m sure.” And now our goal was just a short distance away. The wind was blowing a gale and whipping the snow against us. It seemed to be getting colder with every step. And then, there loomed the summit house right before us. With the motorcycle parked in front, Willie pounded on the door. It did not open. He walked around the building several times trying to find a way to get in. The windows were all boarded up and the place apparently deserted. The Ad-A-Man Club members must have started down the trail after shooting off the fireworks and the place was locked up. Once again, we all pounded on the door. This time it opened. The group of men inside had not heard us due to the howling of the wind. Can you imagine how it felt to step from 36 degrees below 0 into that dimly lit room? As if a magnet, the big pot bellied stove that stood in the middle of the room drew us to its warmth.
I had fallen asleep, utterly exhausted, on one of the benches near the stove. Roy awakened me and said, “Come outside, it’s getting daylight.” There stood our faithful motorcycle – mission accomplished.
The reward? Not the $20.00. It was partly to satisfy the urge to meet a challenge, to do something that was a first and seemingly impossible. My big reward however, was standing on the top of Pikes Peak at the beginning of a New Year watching the sunrise in the most glorious spectacle I have ever seen. I couldn’t help but think, as I stood there in the cold, arm in arm with my husband and our creator, who had seen us safely through a very dangerous, hazardous night, and say, “Thank You.”
This is just one of the incredible motorcycling feats from early Colorado bikers. They are all documented, detailed and on display at the Rocky Mountain Motorcycle Museum & Hall Of Fame in Colorado Springs. As is an impressive collections of motorcycles. With free admission, the museum is open to the public Tuesday through Saturday.
