An Eight Day Week -- Dallas to Sturgis and Back
3000 Miles, 9 States, and a Saddlebag Full of Adventures
By Spark
Saturday, August 8, 2002, Outside Denton, Texas. We had already covered 50 miles by the time dawn broke over Texas. The cool morning air felt great as the trees rushed by on either side of the two-lane. A red-tailed hawk rose, taking off as a dark silhouette in the gray morning light, then turning to full color as it passed through the first direct rays of the sun. It was the first week of August, and we were on our way to Sturgis. Like last year, we elected to spend more time riding through the mountains and less time fighting the crowds. Our route would take us in a big circle; West to the Rockies, then north for a few days in the Black Hills, east across the plains to the rolling hills of Missouri, and finally south through the Ouachitas and back home.
By lunch time we were coming into Childress, Texas, and we followed the signs advertising free burgers for bikers at the city park. As we waited at a light, I looked around and realized that we were surrounded by eight really nice Harleys. Unfortunately, ours were the only two touching the ground. Trailer after trailer passed by as we sat in the shade of the CMA rest stop, enjoying a free lunch and great hospitality. The CMA staffers commented that not as many bikes were being ridden to Sturgis this year, in fact one of them wondered if they had picked the wrong week.
After saying our goodbyes, we rejoined the trailer parade on 287. At 95 degrees, it was not nearly as bad as last year, when 107 degree temperatures had driven us indoors each afternoon. Passing though Amarillo and Dumas, we broke away and turned west for New Mexico as the trailers continued on toward the endless cornfields of Kansas and Nebraska. After a few miles, a stiff crosswind came up, and by the time we had crossed the state line, we were ready for the next CMA rest stop in Clayton. Refreshed with lemonade and a cool breeze under the shady trees, we started the long, gradual climb to the pass in Raton.
The wide open spaces of New Mexico are always impressive, and as we rolled off the plains and spotted the first rocky hills, we were once again taken by the beauty of the place. The air was fresh and cool as we wound through the foothills, and the bikes were running great. Low clouds hung over the hilltops. Over and over again, just as we thought we would ride into rain, the road turned away to clear skies. This went on for about an hour, then we rode into cool mist, then light rain. We pulled over, put on raingear, and rode through a light drizzle. As we rounded one turn, a magnificent set of swirling clouds churned around the mountaintops. Thunder rolled in the distance. Hmmm, maybe these clouds were a little too magnificent.
The storm suddenly broke. As the lightning struck all around us and the pouring rain cut our speed to five miles an hour, the ridge above Raton, NM did not seem like the place to be. There were no overpasses, no gas stations, not even a wide shoulder to let us pull over. Cars came up fast behind us, each one trailing a swirling cloud of muddy water and road oil from the fresh asphalt. I thought "If we ride on in this mess, the cars will kill us. If we stay up on this ridge, the lightning will kill us." We rode on slowly, flashers trying vainly to compete with the steady barrage of lightning, stopping every quarter mile to wipe the oil and grime from our glasses. We finally made it to Raton and found a hotel, just as the rain subsided and a double rainbow stretched from hill to hill. We packed it in for the night.
Bright and early Sunday morning we had breakfast, then rode Raton Pass into Colorado. The pass is one of our favorite rides, particularly in the early morning when cool shadows cover most of the road. It began to warm up as we hit Trinidad and Pueblo, and by the time we got to Colorado Springs, it was hot.
We stopped for gas and a drink, and found a poor guy trying to fix a truck. It had died while pulling a huge trailer from Oklahoma, loaded down with one big twin and five very new Sportsters. He was on his way to get an alternator, as mom and the four teenage daughters hung out at the 7-11. One of the daughters noticed that Web was riding a Sporty, and remarked that it "had saddlebags and a 'cattleguard' just like hers." Must be rough riding a Sporty across the lone prairie of Oklahoma, dodging all those cows.
The speed limit on most of I-25 is 75MPH, so we kept to it and made good time. The clouds were building over the mountain ranges to our left, and we didn't want a repeat performance of yesterday's downpour. That plan went pretty well until we got to Loveland. I just couldn't stand to ride past Highway 34, a beautiful two-lane that follows the river through a rock-walled canyon up to Estes Park. Even though the clouds were getting pretty ominous, we cut through Loveland and started up the hills. The road was twisty, the view was great, and as we rounded each turn we saw real people riding real motorcycles
We rode by the dam, where the sign proclaimed the little general store to be the "Best Store By A Dam Site", and on for the last few miles to Estes Park. At this point, the clouds were more than ominous, they were oppressive. We noticed that many more bikes were headed the opposite way, and they were flat gettin' it. We stopped to discuss the situation by the side of the road, since we could actually feel the static building in the air. The barometer on Web's electronic compass was rolling through the digits as the pressure fell, and the temperature had dropped about 10 degrees in the last five minutes. We turned tail and followed a fast-moving pack of canyon-carvers back to Loveland.
Back on I-25, we opened it up and ran from the storm behind us, only to find more storms in front. Just as we crossed into Wyoming, we smelled rain, then topped a hill to find wet pavement ahead. The storm had just crossed the road, and we had once again dodged the downpour. We continued on to Cheyenne, where we pulled into the Motel 6 and called it a day. After cleaning up the filthy bikes, we got a good dinner and turned in for the evening. Here's a travel tip, boys and girls -- if there is an elevated train track directly behind the hotel and a railyard across the street, you are going to need really good earplugs to get any sleep.
After playing "name that train" all night, we rose early and faced Monday morning with bleary eyes. Actually, I had the bleary eyes, since she had used better earplugs, Web was rarin' to go. We bumbled through the packing routine, rolled down the street to the Hitching Post for breakfast, then headed east. I think I slept most of the way to Lingle, and woke up with coffee in Lusk. We stopped at the rest area where 85 meets 18, the only stop for miles, and ran into several muddy bikers leaving the Black Hills and heading back to Colorado. They proclaimed it "a mess", rain every day, and they had just ridden through more rain in Newcastle on the way out.
It looked like it was raining in the higher elevations first, and since we were staying in Wall, we decided to take the southern route on 18 and 79, bypassing Sturgis and Rapid City. We headed up 18 a few miles and pulled into the first gas station that we saw. It turned out to be a great find, since they had a deli and made us fresh sandwiches to order. After lunch, we rode an easy hundred miles through the hills, once or twice getting close to rain, but managing to avoid it.
We hit I-90 outside of Rapid, and pulled into the truckstop, where we ran into Delton Woodley and Sandra Wrighton. Del rides a one-of-a kind trike with a wheelchair bracket on one side. He had wrecked his bike in '83, and his injuries prevented walking or riding. His buddies figured that was just not going to do, so they yanked a rear axle from a '47 servicar, flipped it over, married it to Del's bike, and built a trike around it. Del lit it up and let the pipes do the talking as he scorched out of the truckstop. We headed the opposite direction, did the remaining miles to Wall, ate at the drugstore cafe, and packed it in for the night.
Tuesday we did the Badlands, and for the first time, we had to wear jackets. It was actually cold in spots, but as the sun came up we shed the leather and had a great ride. We continued on to Rapid City, then to Custer park. The park was jammed with bikes on the Needles Highway, and getting through the arches sometimes took a half hour. More concerning was the lack of skill evident in many riders -- it was a wobbly bunch up there. Descending sections with sharp turns were decorated with many fresh scrapes, and some of the apexes were covered with oil where bikes had gone down. We passed the scene of one accident as the ambulance was being loaded.
Getting away from the crowd a bit, we headed south to the wildlife loop and rode right into a herd of buffalo. We waited patiently as they crossed the road, but evidently a couple of riders had tried to speed the process, and the buffalo had "played" with them. The buffalo may have enjoyed the game, but the riders were being attended by rangers as they awaited an ambulance. Another travel tip, boys and girls -- to a bull buffalo, a rider revving a Harley and pressing into the herd looks and sounds like a rival calling out a challenge.
We passed two more herds of buffalo without incident, saw the antelope, and stopped for the donkeys. This year, like last year, we were behind a mini-van as the donkeys crossed the road. But this year, the kids didn't open the sliding door to feed them, the female donkey didn't try to climb in the mini van, and the kids weren't treated to sex education 101 as the male played "why don't we do it in the road." Too bad, last year it was lots of screaming fun for all. It was dark by the time we got out of the park, so we had dinner in Custer, then rode back to Wall for the evening.
Wednesday was our day for Sturgis, so after breakfast we rode 90 miles west. As we rolled into town on Junction Avenue, I saw Mountainman's tent and made a quick right turn. An accomplished mural artist and striper, he has done outstanding work on several of our friend's bikes, and I was hoping to find him available. As I walked into his tent, he was putting a fantastic eagle on the fairing of a white 'Glide, with flags scrolling in the background. It turned out that he would be available, so we looked through his scrapbooks and selected a set of feathers and beads for the tank of my black Road King.
We did the usual shopping, found a nearly-empty restaurant in time to dodge a rainstorm, checked out the bikes on main street, then walked back to Mountainman's tent to see what he had done. It was perfect. Everything was just right, the accents matched the existing stripes perfectly. We did a little more shopping, got a replacement clock for Web, scoped out a few more bikes and people, then headed back to Wall before dark.
Thursday dawned cloudy, and we were headed east. There was a lot of rain behind us, some ahead of us and it was all headed the same way we were. We dodged a few showers, then suited up for a few more. In and out of the clouds, it was no big deal until we stopped for gas and saw a huge thunderhead to the east. As we rode toward it, the wind came up, and it looked bad ahead, but the storm was off to the south, so we only caught a few drops. Others were not so lucky. When the storm crossed I-90, it tracked along the highway, pelting bikers with hail, rain, and high winds. Web was listening to a local station on her headset radio, and people were calling in from cell phones on the Interstate to report bikes down and all traffic stopped. The announcer said "If you are headed toward Sturgis on a bike right now, just turn around and go home."
At a gas stop later that day, we talked to one of the riders that got caught in the melee. He said that when the hail started, everyone slowed down, but some of the bikes just slid off the road into the median. He told us that he saw several riders go down, but it was slow-motion on wet grass, and no one he saw go down got injured. We hit the road again, trying to stay ahead of the storms.
After the crosswind had beat us up for another couple hours, we pulled into White Lake, hoping for some lunch and a breather. As we rolled down the main street of this little town of 329 residents, it didn't look too hopeful. Then we saw the sign for the Outpost Cafe. As we were getting off the bikes, a couple came out of the cafe and told us "They've got real good stuff in there." That was what we needed to hear. We sat down an had a feast, and were soon joined by four riders from Iowa. After lunch, we continued east on I-90, passing by the Corn Palace (It's A-maize-ing) in order to reach Sioux City, Iowa by dinnertime. We got the last room at the hotel, and called it a day.
Friday was nice and cool, with no rain. We booked it from Sioux City, past Omaha, Nebraska, and into Missouri before lunch. It was nice to be back in rolling hills again, and the scenery continued to improve as we rode south. We jumped off the interstate at Kansas City, and headed south on 71. After a hundred miles or so, we were in need of coffee and gas, and when we found a truckstop and a Denny's at Lamar, we thought we were in luck. Little did we know, this was the Denny's with the manager from Hell.
The first thing that greeted us at the door was not a "welcome" sign, but one that said "We are NOT participating in the $2.99 national Grand Slam advertising campaign." Ok, there goes a cheap feed. Into the second set of doors, where the signs read "Smile, you're on surveillance camera" and "No shirt, No shoes, No service." Then to the counter, where the signs read "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone," "No shoplifting, survivors will be prosecuted" and the grand finale, a huge whiteboard with "Bad Check List" and about 100 names. Amazingly, the place was empty! A true testimony to the power of keeping the riffraff out. We wondered whether they would exercise their right of refusal, then videotape us for evidence. We were indeed served pie and coffee, and the waitress turned out to be a lot more friendly than the management.
We gassed up, hit the dusty trail, and rode south. We made Bentonville, Arkansas by dinnertime, and considered it good enough when we saw a motel. Still feeling grimy and somehow unworthy of commercial interaction, I sent Web in to negotiate a room. She scored bigtime, as the manager was a rider from way back. Not only did we get a nice room, we got a place to wash down the bikes complete with hose and rags.
Saturday we headed home through Arkansas and eastern Oklahoma, riding the Ouachita hills and dodging the drops. The same storm system that had been chasing us east for the last few days had finally caught up, and we spent a lot of time changing in and out of raingear. At one point, near McAlester, Oklahoma, we ducked under an overpass and waited out a thunderstorm. As the thunder rolled and the rain came down, we lay back and snoozed, nice and dry on the angled concrete.
We finished with a quick run down US 75, and about six that evening we rolled into our garage and shut the bikes down. Dirty once again, they were also both in need of a service. We had covered 3002 miles in the last eight days, and completed a loop that crossed 9 states. We had used up all of our time off, all of our clean clothes, and most of our cash. We had seen scenes that were too big to be captured on film, and ridden roads that were too beautiful to be described in words. We laughed ourselves silly, met some nice folks, and got scared spitless more than once. I'm running the replay in my head right now. If I could bottle it, I'd be a millionaire by next week.
(c) Copyright 2002 Terry Morris
