US 14: Sturgis – the Ultimate Bike Rally

The Grand Gateway Hotel was actually not that grand, but was neat, clean, centrally located, and the staff were great. Decorated in what would have been regarded as kind of grand in the 1960s, it was nonetheless well maintained, convenient and comfortable. Better still, it was ours for the next three nights. The hotel allocated us a room on the ground floor with two queen sized beds; and we parked our motorcycles right outside our window. The next day we would check out Sturgis and what I’d always considered to be the ultimate bike rally.

After we’d arrived and checked in at the end of our ride from Billings, we had a couple of options: we could head straight out again to Sturgis; or, we could kick back, have a coffee and a bit of a yarn, and catch up on our washing from the last few days on the road. We could also wander across to Applebee’s, at the far edge of the hotel car park, for something to eat. We decided to take option two and to leave the whole Sturgis thing for the next day.

Another diner

So, showered, shaved and with the bikes washed and laundry done, we fronted Applebee’s in the early evening. Again, we were hungry enough to eat a horse and chase the rider. Because I can’t actually remember, our main course would have been whatever Mel decided looked good. What I do remember was the homemade apple pie and ice cream that I ordered for dessert. It was really good and about twice as much as I needed; but, I ate it all anyway. When we finally lurched out of the place, we both had that uncomfortable feeling you get when you’ve eaten way more than you needed to.

After our meal, we walked up the street a bit, just to try and get rid of the bloated feeling we both had. Back at the hotel afterwards, we ordered coffee and sat in the lounge for a while. Our conversation naturally drifted to the roads we’d travelled, the people we’d met and talked with, and the magnificence we’d seen. We also talked about family, friends and the people we knew in common; about some of the things that make life worth living; and, about a few things that had shattered us. 

Getting to understand

I was beginning to understand that Mel’s Faith was not an inherited one. Mel had a deep and personal commitment that underpinned what he thought; what he said; the way he interacted with people; and the way he lived his life. As a much younger man, I’d had a kind of superficial facsimile of this kind of Faith but I’d not had the commitment or the integrity to keep it alive. Over the years it had flaked away like last season’s sunburn. Almost in spite of myself, I was developing a respect, and perhaps a smidgeon of envy, for what Mel believed and stood for.

Afterwards, we headed back to the room where Mel settled in to organising his Facebook posts while I lay on the bed and used my Ipad to Google Rapid City. And, somewhere in the evening, I drifted off to sleep.

Early morning . . . again

It was dark when I woke; silent, except for the quiet rumble from Mel’s side of the room. At first, I had no real idea where I was, but it all came back to me soon enough. I found my jeans on the back of the chair, felt around for a fresh T-shirt and, once dressed, I eased open the door and stepped out into the hallway. The early morning staff had brewed fresh coffee for the guest lounge, so I poured myself a good strong black Columbian and headed outside.

In the expansive car park out front there must have been at least a hundred motorcycles; mostly Harley Davidsons and mostly Road Kings or Ultras. Just to the left of the main entrance, bordered by potted pencil pines, was the designated smokers’ area complete with patio chairs and occasional tables. I eased myself into the chair furthest from the main doors, lit up, took a long drag and then looked around. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s true – I just love this time of the day.

Rapid City

So, this was Rapid City. The Sioux referred to the first settlement in this area as Mni Lúzahaŋ Otȟúŋwahe literally meaning Swift Water Village. By the time we arrived though, Rapid City, Seat of Pennington County, was the second largest city in South Dakota.  Sited in the western part of the state, it is situated on the eastern slope of the Black Hills Mountain Range.

Because of its location, Rapid City is fairly widely known as Gateway to the Black Hills. It’s also sometimes referred to as the City of Presidents because of the life-sized bronze president statues in the downtown area. The eastern and western sections of the city are split by a low mountain range. Both the Ellsworth Air Force Base and the South Dakota Army National Guard’s Camp Rapid are located on the outskirts of the city.

So, how and why did this city get started?

The back story

Well, the Black Hills Expedition in 1874 discovered gold.  And, incidentally, this expedition was led by the same Custer who died at Little BigHorn a couple of years later. As always seems to be the case with any gold discovery, miners and settlers flooded into the region. The settlement that was later to become Rapid City was, in fact, founded by a group of unsuccessful miners trying to create other opportunities. In February 1876, John Brennan and Samuel Scott, together with a small group of men, laid out the site and the settlement was ultimately named after the spring-fed Rapid Creek that flows through it.

Land speculators moved in, as they do, measured off a square mile and designated six blocks in the centre as a business section. Committees were appointed to recruit merchants and their families to locate in the new settlement. The location on the edge of the Black Hills and its large river valley made it a natural centre for the railroads that were constructed during the late 1880s from both the south and east. By 1900, Rapid City had survived a boom and bust and was developing as an important regional trade centre for the upper Midwest.

A big man . . . and then some

Away in the East, a faint glow betrayed the onset of dawn as I headed back inside, greeted several other early morning bikers, and decanted myself another cup of Columbia. By the time I got back to the smokers’ area, I wasn’t the only sitter. In the corner, back against the wall, was one of the biggest guys I’d seen in quite a while. African-American, with arms about the size of my thighs, shoulders and chest that were about two of me across, and probably well over six foot tall, he nodded and smiled.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘How you doing?’

‘I’ll be good right after I’ve had this,’ I said, holding up my cigarette.

‘Me too, my friend, me too,’ he replied with a grin.

I lit up and took a long drag.

‘Here for Sturgis?’ he queried

I nodded.

Crossing paths

‘Where do you call home?’ he asked

‘Darwin. It’s in the Northern Territory of Australia . . . right up the top,’ I replied.

‘So, what brings you halfway around the world?’ he asked.

‘When our Dad was dying five years ago, my brother and I agreed that we’d take a ride together; see if we could get to know each other a bit. And this is it,’ I responded. ‘And you?’

‘On a road trip too. Going to spend some time with my sister down in South Carolina. Used to be in the military until I retired last year. Spent a lot of time overseas over the last forty years. Now, I’m on the road to take a look at my country.’

A risk . . . or maybe not

‘Tell me something,’ I said. ‘I’ve only just arrived in town but there don’t seem to be too many African-Americans here, or even Hispanics for that matter – why is that?’

‘Well, my friend, if you’re black you’re probably going to be pretty careful where you ride, and with who . . . and, at an event like this, you’re going to have to deal with more than your fair share of red-necks, if you know what I mean.’

‘Really?’ I responded.

‘Yep, really!’

‘So, what are you doing here?’ I asked.

‘On my way, and I haven’t been to Sturgis for about ten years. Anyway, once you been fighting for the man for a while, it’s not easy to get nervous about anything here,’ he said with a wry grin.

‘Well, I’m sure you’re right about that . . . guess you’re armed and pretty handy with guns anyway, right?

No . . . I don’t carry weapons

‘Yes, I know my way around weapons but no, I never carry a gun,’ he said, and as he did, his face turned serious. ‘Seen more weapons that I ever want to see again.’

‘True story? You’d have to be about the first person I’ve met in this country that doesn’t carry a weapon.’

‘Do I look like I need one?’ he asked, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

‘No, I guess not,’ I responded.

‘Do you carry a weapon?’ he queried.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Guns aren’t my thing. Anyway, most Australians don’t carry guns.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s right,’ he said, ‘I heard your Prime Minister confiscated all your weapons.

No guns in Oz

‘Well, not exactly,’ I said, ‘We had a massacre at Port Arthur, and after that, the Prime Minister said: right, we need to get rid of the guns. Most Australians thought that was fair enough. Truth is, though, we don’t have a second amendment thing like you blokes do over here . . . I’ve actually never owned a gun.’

‘But you and your brother, on the road here in the US, you don’t feel nervous?’ he asked.

I said nothing for a bit while I turned that question over in my mind. Then I looked at him right in the eyes.

‘Mate, I’ve lived long enough to bury one of my kids and, in my book, that’s a bit too long. I reckon the worst thing that could happen to me has already happened. Do I look nervous?’

‘Well . . . No,’ he said, and then he was quiet for a while.

‘I’ve spent a life-time reading people; mainly so I can predict what they are likely to do; how they will react. But once in a while, you meet someone you can’t read. They are the dangerous ones, because it’s not easy to tell what they’ll do. I think you might be one of those. So, you’re telling me, you’ve never carried a gun?’

‘No, I’ve never carried one.’ I responded.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, why is that?’

OK . . . here’s why

‘Even if I had one, I’m not sure I could use it on another human being,’ I said. ‘And I reckon if you’re not prepared to use it, you just might get it taken and used against you.’

‘How’s that,’ he asked.

‘You really want to know?’ I asked.

‘I only ask when I want to know,’ he responded . . . and I could be wrong about this but, his response hinted at an undercurrent of menace.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘You got the time?’

‘All the time there is,’ he replied.

Thirty years ago

So I told him about something that had happened in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea about thirty years earlier.

The Education Department had just appointed me as Regional Secondary Inspector for the Eastern Highlands Province. Among other things, my responsibilities included making inspection visits three times a year to the seven Provincial and one National High School in the Eastern Highlands Province. All of these schools except one were located near the main arterial that traversed the Province; the Highlands Highway. 

The only remote school was Okapa High School. The road to this school was an unsealed and sometimes impassable track through fairly unforgiving terrain.

At the time of one of my earliest visits, the monsoonal rains had been particularly heavy. In fact, the Assistant Secretary for Education, my boss, thought that my planned visit would be impossible. But, I headed out anyway; nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

The hold-up

I drove out of Goroka just after dawn. And, as the road surface  progressively deteriorated, I transitioned from two-wheel drive, through four-wheel drive, to low range four-wheel drive, and finally to low range, four-wheel drive with chains. Just after fording a creek swollen by heavy rain, I commenced a creeping, sliding ascent that would ultimately deliver me to an open kunai plain. I was probably making no more than 10-15kmh when, just around a switchback, I came across a log that had either fallen or been dragged across the road. With the road too narrow to allow for a turn and the log too big to drive over, even in a Nissan Patrol, I stopped.

No sooner had I come to a stand still, than a double-barrelled shotgun was thrust through the driver’s side window and shoved firmly into my neck just below my ear. I didn’t move but became aware of about a dozen young Papua New Guineans around the front of the Nissan.

Give me your money

‘Moni! Givim moni blo yu!’ [give me your money] demanded a bearded face outside my window.

I went through my wallet and pockets, came up with about K5.76 [about $6.25], and handed the money and wallet out the window.

‘Em tasol,’ [that’s all I have] I said.

The gun barrels were pressed hard into my neck and it was starting to get painful; probably not as painful as getting my head blown off, but still. This was definitely not good. It was the middle of April, 1985 and I was acutely aware that only a matter of weeks before a young missionary had been killed by a shotgun blast to the head, when he’d gone out to turn off the generator. I had, in fact, driven past that mission station at Homu just an hour or so earlier.

Documents but no money

‘Givim sut kes!’ the gunman ordered. [suitcase literally translated but referring to my briefcase on the back seat]

I asked for, and was given permission to get out of the Patrol. The gunman stepped back to allow me room but stayed vigilant; the barrels remained pointed at the middle of my chest. Slowly, I opened the back door of the Patrol, and retrieved the briefcase. Then I opened it to show that it only contained papers and files, and handed it to him.

He handed the gun to one of his side-kicks so he could rifle through the documents. Then he looked at me.

‘Moni stap we?’ [Where’s the money?]

A coffee buyer’s car

‘Em tasol, nogat moni.’ I said [That’s all, I have no money]

‘Disela kar blo kopi!’ he said [This is a coffee buyer’s car]

‘Nogat, em kar blo mi.’ I replied. [No, it’s my car]

I’d purchased the short wheel base Nissan Patrol secondhand from Angco Coffee in Goroka, and it now seemed clear that the gang had recognised it as a coffee buyer’s car.

Back then, a majority of the arabica coffee produced throughout the Highlands Regions of Papua New Guinea was grown by smallholders in local villages. Coffee buyers would, in season, travel throughout the highlands and purchase this locally produced coffee from the roadside. Given the absence of banking facilities and the fact that electronic transfers were nonexistent back in the day, it was not uncommon for coffee buyers to travel the road with upwards of forty thousand kina [$45,000] in cash. Clearly, it was this money that the gang was after.

What do you do?

Suddenly, I understood the reason for the holdup. 

In Tok Pisin [the local lingua franca], I explained that I’d bought the Nissan Patrol from Angco; that it now belonged to me and not the coffee company; and, that I was not a coffee buyer. I told him that he was welcome to the briefcase but asked that he return my documents; I’d spent hours updating and auditing the financial records for the High School and was unwilling to forfeit these without some resistance.

‘Wanem wok blo yu?’ he asked. [What do you do for a living?]

‘Skul,’ I said. ‘Mi wok lo skul’. [School . . . I work in Schools]

‘Wanem skul?’ he asked. [what school]

‘Okapa High School,’ I said.

The tension seemed to flow out of his body; he relaxed, and a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

‘Brus blo mi sai skul lo hap,’ he said. [My brother goes to school there].

Something in common

Suddenly he wanted to talk, and I was more than happy to oblige; it was definitely better than being on the receiving end of demands with considerable menace – or worse, a shotgun blast.

He wanted to know how a ‘white man’ could speak the language so well. I told him that I’d been born and grew up in Papua New Guinea. Given that he looked to only be in his very early twenties, I’d been living in the country longer than he had; I was in my mid thirties at the time.

The release

And, just like that the dynamics and atmosphere changed completely. He told me his name was Ambrose, and gave instructions for the log to be dragged off the road. He handed back the briefcase, told me I could go, and held out his hand.

I took as firm a grip as I could muster, and shook hands. Then, unnerved and shaken, I climbed back into the cab and was  just about to crank the engine over, when Ambrose yelled.

‘Holim pastaim!’ [Stop]

Bloody hell, what now? I thought. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. Maybe he’d decided to take the car. It looked to me as though I wasn’t going to get away so lightly after all.

‘Bekim moni blo em!’ he ordered. [Give him back his money]

One of the gang came forward and handed me my pittance.

‘Em nau . . . lukim yu!’ he said, and grinned. [OK, see you later]

On being calm and saving face

I wanted to slam down my foot, smoke the wheels and get out of there as fast as I could. But, it had started to rain again, and I was still in low range four-wheel drive with chains on all four. There was no way I was going anywhere in a hurry. A mile or two further along, though, I stopped and with hands that were still visibly shaking, I lit a cigarette and breathed in deep. Some days you just get lucky, I suppose. On the other hand, if you believe that sort of thing, maybe it just wasn’t my day to die.

An amusing postscript to the incident was that I travelled that road at least another dozen times over the ensuing years and, without exception, had been stopped and treated to a warm beer by Ambrose at the gang’s ‘club’.

Now, here’s the thing about carrying guns. When I’d purchased the Patrol from Angco, I’d been offered the sawn-off shotgun that was stored in a clip under the front seat; coffee buyers were generally ‘unofficially armed’. At the time, I’d knocked back the offer because I thought that there was something very odd about a Secondary School Inspector driving around with a sawn-off shotgun under the front seat.

If I’d had a weapon . . . I’d probably be dead

As events transpired on the day of the carjack, if I’d had a gun clipped under the front seat, there would have been no realistic way that I could have retrieved it or used it to protect myself. And, if the gang had discovered that I was armed, I’m pretty sure that I would have been shot.

‘So, you see,’ I said. ‘If I’d had a weapon back then, I’m pretty sure I’d be dead.’

My ex-military friend sat silently smoking throughout my recount and, when I was done, he looked at me steadily for a while.

‘I think I’m right about you,’ he said slowly. ‘You definitely one of those that’s not so easy to read. Is there anything you afraid of?’

‘Absolutely! I said. ‘Spiders, I hate spiders!’ 

We both laughed.

Questions but no answers

Like a lot of really big men, this one was reserved and quietly spoken. But, when he did speak, his voice was deep and resonant; the kind of voice that got your attention. He’s done most of his service in Military Police and had retired as a Major so clearly he was no fool. The Military Police was apparently a relatively large organisation within the US Military. I’d had no idea but, I suppose when you have around 1.3 million people on active duty and another eight hundred thousand in the reserve forces, you probably have more than a few bad apples.

We talked on until well after the sun was fully over the horizon. He was thoughtful, well-informed and articulate and he’d done what I guess all good officers in the military police do, he’d had me talking about myself. It was only later that I realised that he’d given very little away about himself.

Getting on with it

Eventually though, I needed to go; time to see if Mel had surfaced and it was past time we sorted something to eat. I stubbed out my cigarette, stood, wished him safe travels, shook hands, and then I headed back through the front doors and down the hall to our room. I hadn’t planned it that way, I never did, but I was discovering that the most interesting people hang about outside smoking in the early morning.

Breakfast wasn’t on the house, so we slipped over the road to Dennys. It isn’t gourmet food, but it is open twenty-four hours, the service is good and the food predictable. Anyway, who bothers with gourmet food for breakfast, Right? While we were there, we decided that no plan was a good plan; we’d just get on our motorcycles, head down the road to Sturgis to see what was going on at the ultimate bike rally and then just play it by ear from there.

And so it was that about mid-morning we found ourselves heading up the on-ramp to I-90 West for the twenty-five mile gallop back to Sturgis. The heavy, non-stop thunder of V-Twins permeated the atmosphere everywhere as we joined the veritable stream of motorcycles heading west.

Sturgis

The day was pleasantly cool and the sky almost cloud free as we thundered west along with a few hundred other bikers; it was good to be back on the road but without any significant distance to cover. We had a whole day to potter about, see things, ride if we wanted to, or just sit around drink coffee and watch people. There was no need to worry about how to get to Sturgis or which was the correct off-ramp; all we had to do was stick with the convoy of motorcycles that spread across all lanes of I-90 and snaked its way into the distance.

Getting from the freeway exit and into Sturgis itself was a bit more of a challenge; it was an absolute bottle-neck; a fender to fender crawl all the way from the off-ramp to downtown Sturgis. We parked our bikes at Boulevarde Street about six blocks back from Lazelle, mainly because that was the first available space we found.

How it all started

Now, if you are a biker, the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is a bit of a Mecca – well it was for me anyway. For me, Sturgis was the ultimate bike rally.

Originally known as the Black Hills Classic, the rally is held annually in Sturgis, South Dakota and usually starts on the Friday before the first full week in August and ends on the second Sunday of the month.

The event’s founder, one Clarence ‘Pappy’ Hoel, purchased an Indian Motorcycle Franchise in Sturgis in 1936 and formed a Motorcycle Club; the Jackpine Gypsies. Hoel and the Club organised the first event and staged it on August 14, 1938. The program consisted of a single race with nine participants and a small audience. The program of activities expanded over the ensuing years but the focus of the rally remained racing and stunts. In 1961, the agenda further expanded to include the Hillclimb and Motocross races. It is said that the Sturgis Rally has been held every year with exceptions during WWII; apparently, as a consequence of wartime gas rationing, the rally was not held between 1942-44.

Lazelle Street

Lazelle Street was absolutely packed. Motorcycles were backed up and parked against both curbs for virtually the whole length of main street [Lazelle] and in double back-to-back formation down the centre of the road. Commercial concessions selling after-market accessories, leather-goods, T-shirts, biker lady apparel and much, much more, were cheek by jowl along both sides of Lazelle. Tattoo parlours proliferated and nubile young ladies not only paraded the street on foot and as pillions on motorcycle, but offered all kinds of services from serving beer, Jack Daniels or whatever other beverage you might want to imbibe, through to splashing liberal amounts of water at a number of the bike wash sites.

Saloons, Sideshows and Celebrities

The 73rd Anniversary of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally comprised activity, events, entertainment, alcohol, and more than a fair share of those funny cigarettes. The biggest event for the year was undoubtedly Indian Motorcycles’ launch of their brand new line up of cruisers. Thousands crowded the streets around the Sturgis Hall of Fame and Motorcycle Museum. Mike Wolfe [American Pickers] and Laura Klock [world’s fastest woman] along with the Indian Motorcycle Corporation Executives were on hand to roll out the new Indians; the reception of the new motorcycles was as loud as it was enthusiastic.

All campgrounds around Sturgis were filled beyond capacity by rally-goers in pursuit of copious quantities of alcohol and an equally large range of head-banging entertainment. At the Full Throttle Saloon, there were performances by Bret Michaels [without Poison] and Vince Neil [without Motley Crue]. Further down the road at the legendary – or, depending on your point of view, notorious – Buffalo Chip there were concerts by Kid Rock, ZZ Top, Rob Zombie, and Mastodon among numerous others. The occasional cloud burst from passing storms seemed to do little to dampen the energy, volume or enthusiasm.

Too old for for drugs and rock & roll

Of course, we weren’t part of all this. We were motorcycle road trippers and this was just a pause along the way; interesting and all as that pause might have been. We walked the length of Lazelle Street and browsed in most of the vendor concessions; and could have bought a whole truck load of T-shirts, biker patches, jackets, vests and chaps but, of course, then we’d have needed a truck to cart all the stuff away. 

Instead we looked at and photographed motorcycles: the new line of Indian Cruisers, the 110th Anniversary line of Harley Davidsons, Custom Bikes and a whole array of aftermarket accessories. We took pictures of the saloons; rode out to have a look at the notorious Buffalo Chip; ate greasy fast food; and, downed quite a few cans of coke. And, just like that and, it was going on 4.30 pm. 

To stay . . . or not

There was the option of sticking around, getting something to eat, and taking in some of the entertainment; and we considered that for about a milli-second. Mel didn’t seem keen though I’m sure he would have stayed if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. My preference is for R&B and preferably in smaller, more intimate surroundings. The entertainment at the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally would be packed, raucous and probably wet.

The afternoon had turned hot. Dust eddies moved restlessly along Lazelle and in the south west blue-black had piled up over the Black Hills. We’d really had enough of wandering the dusty streets, and I think we both fancied the idea of a long shower and a relaxed meal back in Rapid City. I suspect in my case, at least, all this might have had something to do with getting older. There was a time when I would have stuck around, worked my way through a bucket or two of beer, and rocked the night away with the best – or worst – of them. But those days had drifted away over the years and, in truth, I wasn’t all that sorry to see them go. Anyway, as events transpired, we took to our motorcycles and headed back towards Rapid City. 

A retreat of sorts

It was good to be back on the road and in the wind again. We were not in a hurry. We just rolled along with the general pace created by the river of motorcycles flowing back to Rapid City. I guess we’d covered twenty or so of the twenty-five miles to Rapid City when Mel’s taillight flared and his turn indicator came on. I followed suit and headed for the off-ramp. Up ahead flags fluttered in the afternoon breeze as we joined a two-by-two cue of motorcycles creeping towards traffic marshals at the entrance of an expansive sealed parking area. Leaving our bikes locked and leaning on their side stands, we walked briskly towards a triple row of tents and a few eighteen wheelers on the high side of the parking area.

Open house at Black Hills Harley Davidson

We’d arrived at Black Hills Harley Davidson and the marquees and semi-trailers housed more custom and aftermarket accessory dealers than I’d ever seen in one place. Now, somewhere earlier in this yarn, I made the observation that Americans are pretty serious about their RVs. Well, they’re pretty serious about their utes as well. Blokes in the US refer to them as trucks . . . and, indeed they are – trucks.

Parked right next to the Performance Machine Marquee, in all its military green glory was one such ‘truck’. Manufactured by the Ford Motor Company, this monster was powered by a seven litre, intercooled diesel. Four-wheel drive with high and low ratio, and a twin passenger cab, it had all the other bells and whistles and was just what you needed if you were looking for top bragging rights with the boys at the pub. 

The concessions, each with their own marquee included: Arlen Ness; Avon Tyres complete with a fitting service; Cobra, D & D, and Vance & Hines Exhaust Systems; Klock Werks; Performance Machine; Kuryakin; Legend Air Suspension; Rinehart Racing; Roland Sands Design; S & S; Saddleman; Freedom Express; Feuling; and, many, many more that I just can’t remember. Being the petrol-head, Harley tragics that we are, we were like a couple of kids in a candy store.

Back to Rapid City

Black Hills Harley Davidson, located at the top end of the massive car park area, had more merchandise than anyone could ever use stacked high on benches right along the front of the dealership. And inside, the latest editions of every model the Motor Company produced packed the floor.

The storm over the hills to the south west kept threatening but didn’t follow through with its threat; at least not until much later when we were already back at our digs in Rapid City. We wandered the after-market and custom concessions and Black Hills Harley Davidson for hours. Mel had a new Klock Werks windscreen fitted to his FXD while we ‘window-shopped’; and I had a wind-vest fitted to the Deuce to help deflect some of the insect wild-life for the remainder of our road trip.

We agreed that this event was actually more interesting to us, than the whole Sturgis thing. It was well after dark before our hunger drove us back to our bikes and on to Rapid City. 

Just a thought

Having a motorcycle is not a matter of life and death

 . . . it’s much more important than that.

Click to continue reading: US15 Ultimate Sculpture in the Black Hills