|
That last 25 miles were the worst of the trip. It rained off and on as the traffic became thick as mud on your boots. Lane splitting is not allowed and when we attempted to play ignorant travelers, motorists tried to hit us. As the sun broke over the parking lot of cars, the humidity rose with the mercury. Of course we got lost at one point, found the Two-Wheelers shop and ultimately the hotel. There was a major party planned for the 25th anniversary of the shop, but the threat of rain and the 450- mile trip to Sturgis the next morning forced us to take it easy and hit the hay early. We tried a local restaurant for grub, but they still didn’t serve peach pie. The next morning, Myron and I were on the road by 4:30. An odd feeling swept over us as we rode Highway 25 in the dark. In the rolling fields and wide open spaces of Colorado, it was as if we were lodged on the brink of the city. There wasn’t a row of houses or an industrial park once we turned north and it felt good. We rumbled for 90 miles until we arrived at Cheyenne, Wyo., for breakfast. We hit the road for another 75 miles and pulled off in Wheatland where we refueled and had one of Myron’s safety meals and coffee. He works out constantly and feels that his success in the gym is attributable to his intake of protein. He doesn’t eat a lot or poorly, but often and bushels of protein. As we walked out of the restaurant, we were met by Cheryl. Tom’s bike had a broken shift lever and he was working on it. “How the hell did you get here?” Myron asked. “Uh,” Cheryl muttered, not sure what to say. “What time did you leave?” I asked. “6:30,” she said. We looked at each other in dismay. Myron jerked on his gloves. “Let’s ride,” he shouted, “We’re burnin’ daylight.” We spit dust and rocks as we blasted out of the gravel lot and onto the highway. Suddenly he was hell bent for leather. We stopped just for gas in Orin and headed east on 20/18, blasting toward the small town of Lusk, Wyo.
 At the end of town we stopped for another safety meal. We had 130 miles to go to get to Sturgis, but the roads would narrow and we’d have to slow down. Across the street the bikes were lined up in front of the western bar. I liked this town. It’s small but has some action going for it. As we turned toward the door of the Del Rey Cafe, Milo strolled out the door pickin’ his teeth with a tooth pick. “Damn!” Myron said and almost abandoned his safety meal stop. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Milo shrugged, straddled his all-black dresser and took off. The waitress would melt a good man’s bones with her silky, fair complexion, even lighter hair and brilliant blue eyes. My words were stumbling when I asked for peach pie, but I lost all interest when I discovered that she had just run out. “You mean you didn’t save me a slice?” I shouted, throwing my tan gloves on the table. In Newcastle we stopped momentarily for gas, but as we paid our ticket we noticed Hamster Jeff pull into the station. Myron grabbed his gloves and headed for his Dyna. “Fuck the peach pie,” he shouted again, “Let’s ride.” I tried to holler to Jeff as we headed out of the station and hit the highway toward Four Corners. We were in a race now, and although Myron said to most riders as we left them in bars and gas stops, “Keep it under a hundred,” this time it was different. If we had open straight roads ahead, throttles would be pegged to the stops. He couldn’t figure out how these bastards who left the motel two hours after we did were catching up. Hell, we were rumbling along at 85 plus, but we had 14 meals to their one cup of coffee. What the fuck? Now we were in narrow canyons weaving through packs of bikers heading to their homeland. Again the chopper handled the curves as if I were on a rice rocket, dipping and bending with each bank. Each gas stop was spoke to spoke with lines of motorcycles to refuel. Each bar looked like a popular biker hangout from Southern Calif. on a Sunday afternoon.
 They were coming from all directions. The rumor of afternoon thunderstorms had us pushing the envelope. Our bikes were a mess, but they were running and we were ready to hit the home stretch for our abode in the Bad Lands. Finally, in Spearfish Canyon 15 miles from home, we slowed and enjoyed the Jack Pines and the bustling brooks that bordered the winding road. We were home. Home to the biker, the outlaw, the bandit and to every fucking rider in the world who enjoys open roads, beer, broads and peach pie. Now if we could only find the girl, or at least a piece of pie.
 –Bandit PS. Zebra had arrived four hours earlier. We immediately gathered up the boys and found the only bikini bike wash in town. Following is a couple of miscellaneous shots from Sturgis 2000. It was a helluva year.
|
