Day 01:
Why is it that all year long things like " it is too hot, windy, rainy. . . (plug in your own reason)", keep a capable biker like Ann from taking the occasional trip. . . . ; And yet, come Sturgis time each year she decidedly jumps on knowing she will have to go through blazing heat, rain so cold it stings you to your very center, and the millions of other considerations that detour her from taking that occasional ride?
Nuts, the answer may have to wait. We have some technical difficulties with the bike.
Before I begin this chapter in all fairness I would like to jump ahead in time in order for the reader to get an accurate idea of how amazing and capable my wife is when it comes to piloting and handling a Harley on such a journey. I certainly would not be here to relay this tale if it were not for her skills.
We are headed it back home through Salt Lake City, Utah. We are south bound on Interstate 15 at 70 MPH in the far-left lane. The morning rush hour traffic is hectic and Ann then moves to the next lane on the right. The truck that is immediately to the left of us (which moments before had been behind us) is making a hasty dash passed us. For no ascertainable explanation there lies a large orange pylon ahead tangent to both our lanes. Unexplainably, the truck strikes the pylon causing it to spin off irratically. In a matter of seconds we are faced with the possibility that our trip would end tragically should that pylon fly at the wheels of the motorcycle. In such a short time to either react or reason my wife chose reason. A lesser skilled pilot might have reacted by swerving thus dropping the bike; collided with traffic in the next lane over or steered into the approaching danger. Steeling her nerves Ann chose to push ahead realizing that there was no other escape. This was the only correct thing to do.
Now returning to that first day; We discover that the bike does not start. There is very little gas, however there is plenty in the reserve tank. We banter back and forth about why we didn't do a test ride the day before, but frankly there was no time. Ann has moved on to disassembling the air filter, checking for the cleaning rag that may have been left there from the night before. It was not there. It doesn't appear to be electrical, or a problem getting air, so we move back to the fuel as the cause. Ann fiddles with the choke and gets the bike started. Now, admittedly I have no clue when it comes to the mechanics of motorcycles. I do know that she has some old gas, or what is left of old gas in the tank. So first stop is the Exxon station about a 1/2 of mile up the road. This may have been the longest half-mile of the entire trip for Ann. She had never before had so much weight strapped on the bike. I'm not saying which weighed more the husband, or the packs we have bungeed in place of the trunk. Together the load was quite a bit more than Ann had ever experienced before.
Ann fills the tank, and notices gas pouring out beneath the bike. She mutters something about a "pingle" being finger tight, and cranks it down. "Pingle"? That sounds like a made-up word to me. We are going to die, aren't we? (broke down in the desert with one bottle of water between us and not a Harley mechanic in sight). Maybe not, the leak stopped. Ann knows "Pingels". Evidently a "Pingel" is the doohickey under the left side of the gas tank attached to the thingamabob there on her 1994 Electra Glide. The next problem is a bit more serious.
Ann is very nervous about the weight and being responsible for a passenger. We talk about (oh, the sacrilidge!) of driving my truck up to Sturgis. Unless she finds her confidence level this could be a short trip. I suggest driving the motorcycle around Tucson as a warm up for the trip. I would say that she was gathering her confidence and found a great deal of it by the time we hit the Interstate. I lean forward and assure her that "55 or 60 (MPH) is fine, don't stress. Just get us there." An approaching train blows its whiste at us. Ann wonders if it is some biker named Jeff at the helm of the train.
The rest of this day could be summed up by saying that Ann was gathering confidence at no more than 60 MPH, and I was fretting about how knotted my hair was getting from the wind, and trying to figure out when we need to stop for gas (as if I had a clue).
We did stop to get gas in Phoenix. There is something crawling on my arms! No, that is just the sudden abscence of hot air blasting over the hair follicles on each forearm. I'm being sent into the station to pay for the gas. Hope I don't look like some greenhorn yuppie itching at his arms. I open the door and all I see is this scary looking guy with a shaved head, tattoos, two knives and a gun strapped to his mid section. (just the guns and knives were strapped, but he looked like he could take somebodies head without even blinking and wear it as a souvenier.) The woman behind the counter looked like she could take this guy in a knife fight. She says to me, "We don't get many guys riding with a woman piloting." I say, "Heading to Sturgis. It should be entertaining." She replies, "Well if it isn't you only have yourself to blame." This gets me thinking. I'm gonna die, right? Probably after I have to show everyone my "tits? in Sturgis and am forced into the "weenie bite" contest. Nah, that sounds too absurd, er... I hope. I then start to notice people passing us, giving us the "thumbs up" and waving. We even breeze by three truckloads of young service people, waving and showing support for our journey. I am so proud of Ann. I figure this is her shining moment.
Man, it is hotter than blazes in Northern Arizona. WHAT IS THAT SMELL? It did wake me up. I am in serious trouble of passing out in the heat. .....yep, road kill. (A big cow). There it is again. .....a fresh kill. (A horse). Horse vs. Motorcycle..... hmmmmm...... glad we missed that one. Where are we? No smell, but what is that lying by the road? Some guy is taking a nap of all places next to the road. Good grief, there are beer cans and bottles everywhere. We are on the Reservation. Nice to see the Hogans are being made from plywood and stucco these days. I feel saddened how our culture has touched these people.
There are some little Navajo children playing, and they stop and wave at us. I'm thinking, "How cool are we?" I can see the Rim of Canyon de Chelley, and the rest of the ride through Northern Arizona is breathtaking. Then I notice we need gas (as if I was the expert). Ann breezes past the last chance for gas in Arizona. We end up rolling into Bluff, Utah where we stopped and camped for the night. We probably weren't really running on fumes, but Ann pulled us into a station to gas up.
It was probably in Bluff that I formulated my first Sturgis theory. I had figured out that beer was so popular there as a means to make your butt stop throbbing from the long ride. I will spare you the details on how my butt felt in Bluff, Utah.
We climbed on Interstate 70 heading east for Colorado, and something clicked on. Ann was pushing 65 MPH then 70. She would occassionally pass someone at 80. She hit her stride. No fear (coming from the front seat on the bike). I am just stunned, trying to figure out what happened. We are flying through Colorado and all I can think about is not the beautiful vinyards we are passing on the right, but rather the road up ahead. I think Ann was playing with my head a bit. She told me of this narrow and curvy peice of highway with no shoulders, no margin for error, and insane Colorado drivers that use it. She even tops it off with a story of an accident she had seen the year before on that stretch of road. At the gas station in Rifle, Colorado, just as we are beginning our trek down this road from hell; I lean forward and assert, "Let's not make today the day that we die. Okay?" She gives me her steely cold assurance that that won't happen and tears down the road. Okay, I exaggerate. She actually is an intelligent and defensive driver, and there was never any danger from her in causing an accident. It was all the other looneys on the road I was worried about. We had seen one bonehead move by a SUV driver back in Utah, and I was sure the same could happen here. Anyhow, I have a hightened sence of how vulnerable we are.
We live! And what is our great reward? A large friendly brown sign that states, "Entering Wyoming. Like No Other Place." Ann wants to know if I want to go to the place of my birth: Lusk, Wyoming. I'm not in the slightest bit interested, as I was there only for the first six months of my life (and one brief trip through as a child). The roads in Wyoming are well maintained, I am thinking. We are cruising along and then it hits me. Where is all of the scenery? Ann quips, "And coming up on the right we have some more sagebrush." I get to pondering that big friendly brown sign and the state motto. "Like no other place?" Did a bunch of people come together in a meeting and try to find something interesting to say about Wyoming and then put the best description to a vote. I imagined a town hall meeting in which some said "And over on the right is some more sage brush.", or "Where the wind is passed", or "We got good roads." I then figured everybody just gave up on looking for something interesting or unique to say and settled on "Like No Other Place". Well I figure it is like no other place that had not been used for nuclear weapons testing back in the 1950s. That drive north to Rawlins, Wyoming seemed like the longest 50 miles of the trip up to this point. Notice I say "up to this point", because I was to find Wyoming had a few surprises in store for us further up the road.
Hey, look ahead there is a sign. It reads,"Historical Point of Interest Ahead". "Interest!" That is just what this drive needs. I can see another sign to the right that states there is some sort of trail through here. Funny, it looks like sagebrush to me. About twenty minutes later I figure we are about two miles closer to Rawlins. Time and space warp in Wyoming. Look another sign on the right! It reads, "Wildlife observation point." I really scan the landscape, and figure that you are really reaching to call sagebrush a form of wildlife.
We hit our first patch of road construction. We have to sit and wait for a chase car to take us through the construction. It is really hot. Ann sees a little retriever puppy and starts to talk about the dogs back home. The owner says the dog's name is "Penny" as he got it for free. The puppy's father was named "Cash" and was a very expensive bird-dog investment made by a friend of his. Not that this is a fascinating tale, but it is about the most interesting thing I have run across on this stretch of road. The Chase car comes and gets us. We get on the Interstate to Rawlins. What is this noise that actually is louder than the roar of the Harley engine? It is the wind. My baseball cap keeps trying to leave me. At this point I am spending way too much time trying to keep the lid on my head. The weather approaching Rawlins doesn't look good either. We stop and discuss food or spending the night in Rawlins. I'm all for beating this storm, so why not just head for Casper to the north? My bottom hurts, but I don't want to camp in the rain.
Casper is about 120 miles away. Somewhere in this stretch of road is the longest 50 miles of road in Wyoming on this day. We leave the storm behind, so I think. Then I see it. Up ahead there is lighting. Up ahead there is dust blasting across the valley. My attention is drawn away from the few patches of snow on the ground in this 90 degree August weather, and the wooden structures on the sides of the roads that Ann tells me keeps the snow from migrating on the road in the winter. Up until she explained those I thought they were there to stop the tumbleweeds. Anyhow, I am looking into the scariest storm I have seen ahead to the north.
Now I get philosophical. The wind is unraveling my watchband, my shirt is riding up to my chin and I am still trying too hard to hold on to my cap. Some of Ann's hair has escaped her leather cap and whips across my face like a razor edge slicing at my nose and cheek. I look at that storm and think, "There is another side to this storm. We get there, or it won't matter to us if we don't make it." Is this what going to Sturgis is about? You get there, and celebrate the being there? Is it about the beer that numbs your behind? Ann is struggling against blasts of wind, and works out a brilliant strategy, after a couple of close calls from surprise wind gushes. She is following this truck pulling a trailer. I can tell she is watching that trailer to see what the wind is doing to it. IT IS WORKING! I can see a glimmer of hope here. There is some big rock up ahead with facilities, but we decide not to stop as there would be no prayer of getting back on the road under these conditions. We make it about 25 miles to the south of Casper. The wind has let up, but it starts to rain. There is a large truck behind us that is making it hard to pull over. Ann does get us over and we put on our leathers. We ride about three miles through light rain into beautiful weather. I am convinced that the storm will still hit us in Casper, so Ann is looking for a hotel. She pulls us into the the parking lot of a hotel that is scarrier than the storm we just left, so we turn around and head back to the Super 8 we had seen entering town. They don't have a vacancy, but send us to the "Day's Inn". There is an interesting thing about Day's Inn. Their motto is: "There you go." I figure the same guy that wrote the motto for the state of Wyoming wrote the one for Day's Inn. Ann needs Budweiser to calm her frazzled nerves. So we get cleaned up and hit the North Platte Restaurant next to the hotel. I am ready to test my "anaesthetic properties of beer on the gluteus" theory. After facing death in Wyoming, I feel like calling home to mom.
As we leave Gillette, Wyoming, we see the first evidence of people flocking to and from Sturgis. Ann doesn't think there are as many bikers around as in previous years. A bunch of them seem to be heading away from Sturgis. One of them hollars over to us that it is "too hot in Sturgis". I guess he didn't see the Arizona license plate on the bike. We are starting to get a lot of double takes from other riders who are shocked to see the female driving and the male "packed on the back". I would say there were a lot of sly smiles and very few headshakes. This is a pretty cool thing.
Before I knew it we were in South Dakota and rolling into Strugis and the campground. My eyes itch a bit, and I think that maybe I over did the Sunscreen and it has melted into my eyes from the heat. Looks like another tourist trap town, full of tourists. Looks like a harmless campground. Nothing too exciting or scary here. There is only one person sitting amongst the tents in the corner of the campground where Ann normally sets up. His name is Cody from Idaho. Ann has seen him before from a few years ago. She is trying to figure out who is there by whom have their tents up. We set up our tent, and walk over to this tin barn with sawdust on the floor. It is the bar, so its Bud time. There is writing everywhere on the wall. My eyes are stinging. I can't see all that well. Ann is showing me all of the years her name is written on the wall. (?Ann Weber , 1998". "Ann Weber, 1999" , "Laurie B*tchings (actually her name is Hitchings, and is a friend in Tucson), 1999" and there is "Ann Weber , 2000") I'm looking for our friend Sue Clark's name from last year. She and Ann rode up together. Ann is looking for the other instances of her own name. This is her 10th year. I just can't see anymore. I need to find a water faucet and wash the burning out of my eyes. We shower and head into town.
The Guy at the gate of the Broken Spoke Saloon parking lot, tells Ann that I am the "Ugliest looking b*tch he has ever seen.", and laughs. Ann says, "Oh, I don't know. I think he is pretty cute." That's it! I am not going to show him my chest. We are in the Broken Spoke. Cool mist is coming down from he ceiling. Looks like Sodas are free. Fine with me, that is all I am drinking. A band is playing. Ann is admiring the variety of clever shirts. She snaps a picture of a couple. She laughs at another one that reads "Broken Spoke Stiff" as opposed to "Broken Spoke Staff". It is hard to keep form touching my eyes, or even keep them open. We watch Evil Keneivel's tacky leather clothing line being modeled for a few minutes. I beg Ann to get me to a drug store, because I am thinking allergy to the sawdust on the floor of the bar at the campsite. The Pharmacist at the Drug store tries to tell me that it looks like I have conjunctivitis and should go to urgent care. I take the eye drops and we head back to camp were I lay in the tent, after meeting a couple more of Ann's friends. I had seen pictures of George Schultz, but there he is in the flesh. Jack and his wife were at the campsite. They were most pleasant. Unfortunately I have to lie down for a while. I am concerned that Ann might think I am not happy to be there. I hear Mark Lonnen and his new bride Sarah from Canada outside the tent, and get up to meet them. I feel bad, but later that night I do mange to get up and meet Rob, from NewYork (who shared his food with us) , Barbi who has return to Sturgis since the early 1980s, Matt (Aka Sleepy) who is providing the tunes. My eyes are much better. I can hear Mike Kelly (AKA "Yet") yelling from the darkness, "Are we having fun, Yet?" I hear a few people answer that "Yet is having fun." Yet is such a bad dude. Let me tell you most bad dudes may get thrown out of a bar when they go on a motorcycle run and they get too rowdy. Yet went to Canada and got thrown out of the country and told never to return. Pretty impressive, as in my experience I found it a lot easier to get into Canada than to come back to the United States. Try and do it on the back of a Harley as a man with a female driver. The overzealous macho uniform-clad and gun-toting United States gate keepers will make you describe everything from the bike, (or the absence of a second bike), to the details of the trip up before believing that any self respecting American man would ride behind his American woman.
Ann and I head into town and pick up some shirts, boots and hit the ATM machines. There is a really cool Indian Motorcyle parked on the street. I ask Ann to take a photograph of it. We head over to the Badlands in incredibly hot weather, just to take photos by the sign. A storm is moving in to cool off and dampen the southern part of the state. We stop in Rapids City, at the Community Center to get Ann a "Willie G" Harley t-shirt. I am being a real nuisance about the approaching storm. We do get back to Sturgis without much rain. There is an unbelievable amount of traffic backed up on the way to the campground, thanks to some new bar called the "Full Throttle Saloon", and everyone trying to escape the rain. It doesn't rain much. We move the tent away from were the night's log fire (Nuclear fallout) is planned.
Jack gets the log burning for "Nuclear Wednesday" a bit early. So several of the campsite members try to put the fire out. It takes a while, but they manage it. I think our absent firefighter, Sue, has skills that were needed. Too bad she stayed back in Tucson this year. Ann and I run off to get some food at the food stand. The band starts playing across from the Barn. They really are not doing the song they are attempting any justice. I think it must be an original song they wrote to work the crowd up into a frenzy to hear the rest of their repetoir of off-key, offbeat classic rock-n-roll sets. When we get back to the tent we find out there will not be a fire because of the risk of winds speading the sparks. However, Cody and Yet have already had a few blasts of "Nuclear Waste". The Hollow log is on its side now, and Cody is trying to spelunk his way through it. It is a hopeless task, but he is being given a lot of encouragement. Yet is lying down for the moment. Neither Yet or Cody gets a break for too long. When one falls down someone come?s by and picks up the fallen one. The fallen one is always told the other one is still standing. ?You don?t want to be the first man down, do you?? is the mantra of the night, and it is a good night.
