Summer Dream 2006

What - - a - - day.

Breakfast tales of golf ball size hail yesterday. Inch and a half of rain. Tall tales. But the black and foreboding sky westward was a portent of things to come. On the road, concern for ugly skies ahead, a freeway overpass beckoned… don the space suit. Lil’ Joe dived for cover. A silent prayer and westward bound. And that prayer in only minutes became the miracle of sunshine, clouds evaporating. Miles flew by in the cool morning air, the rain a mere zephyr, fading for the day. The bike flew across the miles, suspended in air as if a magic carpet, unmoving, eerie. The Earth rolled by underneath, miles dissolving, the air perfect.

And in no time the Badlands exit loomed. What a place. A crescendo of pillars, canyons, colors and shapes. The Wall! What untold treasures lay hidden within. Mile after mile, 240 wends through the canyons. Just when the last one fades behind, yet another takes its place. It is an enchanted place, inspiring reverernce in its majesty. The winding road, the canyon floor, the monoliths towering overhead and all about. Each minute a new angle of the sun catches yet a new facet. This is truly beautiful. Seen many years ago, it has grown to even greater beautify. You must go there.

Traffic is a river, flowing ever to the sea. From Badlands to the mecca, the thunder grows. Occasional bikes become many and many become overwhelming. Like rivers flowing to the sea, the closer to Sturgis, the more intense it becomes. Gas pumps, five wide and three deep nurse the bikes stacked double, still miles from Sturgis. And the highway is half bikes, then three quarters, then ninety percent. How can it be? Rolling off the ramp into this tiny western town is a solid ribbon of steel on two wheels. This could have been intimidating, overwhelming but prior experience was a godsend.

And it was Sturgis – a constant thunder of motorcycles, a crush of traffic. Park and play or get out of town. Joe found a “T” that’s cool to him, a taco and off we go. "Where’s the babes" I hear him say. Joe, this is a family show. Sturgis is a place you have to go to…. once if never again. Largest rally in the world, but you have to want to hang around. Give me the wide open spaces, don’t fence me in.

Rushmore bound, the exodus in sound is all around. A missed turn takes us beyond Rushmore, darn, and 20 miles south. Too early to stop and camp, the bike swings north, up old 16 to Rushmore. And what a ride. Down US79, hardly a soul to be seen. Up this winding twisting road, eighteen miles and THREE THOUSAND motorcycles. Every inch of the way, two narrow lanes, twisting, turning up and down the slopes. Fifty feet apart, non-stop, thousands. Don’t fence me in. A fascinating ride through pines and donkeys and cattle. Hairpin turns by the score, cascading down the mountain side. Many hours of training served me well. Look over your shoulder, the bike follows. Rushmore approaches, an overlook, five hundred bikes on the turnout. A looming thunderstorm, first of the day sheds tears, quarter size. Splot here, splat there, in no time soaked to the skin. Pulling off the highway onto the overlook is a mistake. Wall to wall traffic won’t let you back on. Don’t fence me in. And the storm looms larger, threatens and I succumb. No further will I go into this madness, the maelstrom of flesh and steel. A quick photo, proof, and back we go. Dart across the highway and spin a U…. out… and wet. We grab some gas, we done the gear, we head out forty and it pours. I will abandon the campground this night for drier skies. Twenty miles to camp, twenty miles backtrack to the monumment, twenty miles back again.

And miles south, forty odd, to look astern, like Lot of old, disaster looms. Such blackness, such fury I have seldom seen. Lightening strikes, streamers pour and towering tops to thirty thousand, more. The thunderstorm engulfs the region all, the camp, the park, the city, the largest I have ever seen. Like an atomic blast, forty miles away this view is good.

Twice today the helmet road in back, the free breezes and the hot sun, tan yet cool. A great feeling, freedom. More road warriors northward bound to Sturgis, and I have been, and I am homeward bound.

And freedom, I have longed for this ride across Wyoming for two years, and it is here. Don’t fence me in. And to dream and to know what freedoms we enjoy. An expensive motorcycle, a month from town, no barriers as each border is crossed. No where else in the world is such freedom alive. Pause for thought, and thanks.

The Missouri, four hundred miles behind, confirms that we are in the West. The day is hot but the air is dry, it makes all the difference. I’m glad to be home again, out West, with even miles to go. And hours and hours, cruising in the sun. The roads last forever but the land is here and now. Enjoy it as you pass and the miles pass quicly by. The prairie runs west, undulating into infinity, and wraps around the earth, and sneaks up behind you. The prairie is limitless. Stop along the highway. You are alone. As far as you can see in any direction, alone. And it’s good, this South Dakota, this Wyoming.
Tonight we sleep, dry, in Lusk, Wyoming.

It was quite a day