There’s a sense of the blues engulfing me as I wander along the Continental Divide heading to or from Sturgis. I hum old R&B or Blues tunes, like Ask the Lonely by the Four Tops, or Don’t be Cruel as I wander over the open road and think of old loves.
It’s the fate, the curse of the sexually addicted personality. Just the thought of my creamy skinned Wyoming beauty, clicks my Shovelhead speed up way beyond the limits as I flew along the wandering highways toward the badlands.
The Divide crosses into the United States in northwestern Montana, at the boundary between Waterton Lakes National Park and Glacier National Park. In Canada, it forms the western boundary of Waterton Lakes National Park, and in the US bisects Glacier National Park. Further south, the Divide forms the backbone of the Rocky Mountain Front (Front Range) in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, heads south towards Helena and Butte, then west through the Anaconda-Pintler Wilderness to the Bitterroot Range, where it forms the eastern third of the state boundary between Idaho and Montana. The Divide crosses into Wyoming within Yellowstone National Park and continues south-southeast into Colorado, then western New Mexico. Note that, although the Divide represents the height of land between watersheds, it does not always follow the highest ranges/peaks within each state or province.
The Continental Divide of the Americas, or merely the Continental Gulf of Division or Great Divide, is the name given to the principal, and largely mountainous, hydrological divide of the Americas that separates the watersheds that drain into the Pacific Ocean from (1) those river systems that drain into the Atlantic Ocean (including those that drain into the Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean Sea), and (2) along the northernmost reaches of the Divide, those river systems that drain into the Arctic Ocean.–Wikipedia
As I listened to my old Shovel bark at the black asphalt ribbon and looked at the vast lonely rolling plains at the base of the Rockies, I remembered what a brother recently told me, “You can weld anything except the crack of dawn or a broken heart.”
This Girl of Bikernet reminds me of a handful of soft exploits in the past. What is it about getting out of town that opens the door for new encounters? Some of those chance meetings in the back of an auto parts store can ultimately last for decades. I met a dark-haired beauty in a Western bar in Wyoming and she asked for a ride. I was riding a lowered dresser at the time and we flew to the edge of her dark little town.
She trusted me, a tall scruffy biker, who wandered into her town from Los Angeles. We didn’t have sex. I didn’t even fondle those big creamy tits as we talked in a dark corner of the wooden bar. I wasn’t alone but riding with a couple of other riders who sneered at me from the Bar.
She didn’t drink much, and as soon as a woman was involved, I stopped drinking. I wanted every tingling sense alive and alert as I brushed against her delicate skin or I studied the shape and color of her glistening eyes. We shared some basic information, she kissed me good night, and we peeled out.
What was it about those fleeting moments that changed the run to the Sturgis in 1990 completely? It added sensual electricity to the rally. I had made a sexually invigorated connection with a beautiful woman. My batteries were suddenly charged to the brim. In the flash of her pure broad smile the long miles weren’t long or daunting, but short, sweet, and light as a feather dancing along a highway fueled by an warm afternoon gust.
She distributed hair salon products throughout Wyoming and later owned her own Salon in a small town outside Thermopolis. We stayed in touch a couple of times a year, and occasionally hooked up during rally times. We made love once, and she looked after me when I hit that damn dear between Worland, Wyoming and Thermopolis, and I ended up in a Casper hospital. She was a good friend for almost two decades.
What is it about the open road and the luster of pearly whites surrounded by a face so soft and bright it changes your life? I don’t know, but the longing, the search, the connections, the first touch, the magnetic rush, can’t be beat with booze, drugs, or that next custom bike. But I could be fulla shit. I’m an addict to soft curves.
–Bandit
Ask the Lonely 1965
Just Ask the lonely
When you feel that you
Can’t make it all alone
Remember no one
Is big enough, to go it alone
Just Ask the Lonely
They know the hurt and pain
Of losing a love
You can never regain
Just ask the Lonely
The young and foolish who laugh at love
So they run away
Confident and sure that fate
Will bring another love their way
But ask the lonely
How vainly a heart can yearn
For losing a love
That will never return
Just ask the lonely
They’ll tell you
They’ll tell you a story of sadness
A story too hard to believe
They’ll tell you
The loneliest one is me
Just ask the Lonely
Ask me, I’m the loneliest one you’ll see
Written by: Ivy Hunter and William Stevenson
