Riders on the Storm

We started out our day in what I think has got to be one of the most overrated towns in all of the US --Sturgis, South Dakota. For those unaware, it is the biker Mecca. Each year literally thousands upon tens of thousands of bikers of all descriptions descend on this town for two weeks. It becomes party central. But the town itself is rather drab and unremarkable. The surrounding area is beautiful, but if you didn't know it, it could be Anytown, USA. Nevertheless, I now can say I've been there, and got the T-shirt to prove it.

Our travels today took us to Devil's Tower, a place sacred to Native American Indians (yes, they call themselves that down here). It was the first national monument declared so by Teddy Roosevelt in 1906. As a single column of stone rising over 1200 feet above the plain around it, it is truly an awe inspiring spectacle.

Once into Wyoming we stopped for coffee at a Starbucks in a town called Gillette. There we met a man we later named "Zeke, the mayor of Gillette." He wasn't really the mayor, just a friendly motorcycle enthusiast. Interestingly he had tattoos of all the different bikes he had owned. Not pictures of the bikes themselves, but the trade marks. So he had a BMW tattoo and a Harley Davidson one, and who knows what else. From the time he came in, to the time he pulled a chair up to join us, till we left, he never stopped talking.

Which brings me to some thoughts about gregarious Americans. Most are very friendly and will tell you their life story just because you made eye contact, and even when you don't! But having a motorcycle is like moths to the flame with every biker, former biker, and wanna-be biker. And they don't so much want to find out about you, as tell you about themselves. Usually in a loud, megaphone-like voice. Being Canadians, we smile, nod politely, and listen till we can leave. Ahhh, Americans -- ya gotta love 'em.

The concensus of our group was that the weather we ran into this afternoon, was the worst any of us had ever encountered on a motorcycle. It was literally a battle to make off the mountain in one piece.

We saw the storm gathering in the distance, and, unfortunately it was where we were headed. Lightening flashed as we got closer. Our road took us up Mt. Baldy, and then we had to descend. The lightening hit close. I wondered if it could hit a moving target. Rain began lightly. Because we were up on the mountain, there was sleet. But as we began the descent the rain grew heavier, and the wind picked up blowing sand and sleet and rain. It was all we could do to keep the bikes on the road in the wind-gusts as we descended the curvy mountain road. The wind was so bad, it blew my windshield partially out of its base and disconnected my speedometer cable.

At one point I stopped to put my rain gear on, but because the road was so steep I couldn't put the bike on its stand -- it kept rolling off. And during the minute I spent trying to use the kick-stand, I got soaked.

Fortunately we all made it safe to the bottom of the mountain, and proceeded on to Cody, Wyoming--a town whose identity is rooted in the persona and antics of Buffalo Bill Cody. We ate supper in his hotel, which is still standing. We recounted the battle on Mt.Baldy and agreed we were glad we too were still standing.