I liked Riverton, like most places in WY. I liked smelling smoke in bars, even though I don't smoke anymore. Wind River canyon was gorgeous. You guys sound you know how to get down. Haha, we were just trying to keep the bikes upright. It was getting a bit grueling.
Where was I?
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Coming into Deadwood seems to bring a certain excitement, and not just because my 750 almost overheats. There’s legal gambling and bars with museums in them. As hokey as everything is, its nice to be surrounded by blinking lights and nightlife. Even if we don’t participate in the moron-tax that is gaming, its fun nonetheless. We stay at a beautifully restored hotel called the Martin Mason. The building dates to 1893, and restoration shows this nicely. Drinks are had at many of the local watering holes, with an extensive talk with the bartender at the Nugget. He explains the town’s special relationship with Kevin Costner, eventually admitting that he once worked for the actor himself. Surely, we can be trusted with this juicy secret he seems to say. Nic and I nod yes, its cool. We saw “The Postman”, no one cares about Kevin Costner anymore. Its cool.
We stay two nights in Deadwood, and make our way to Sturgis on the second day. The rally’s two weeks off, and plenty of empty storefronts and stares greet us. The few stores we go into have a strange tension. Its the same nervous energy of stores before Christmas, hurriedly decorating and setting up for their very survival. I wore an old shirt I’ve owned for 15 years, a Sturgis shirt from 1986 that is nearly transparent by now. Everyone used to ask me if I’d been to Sturgis, so I thought I’d finally take the shirt home in some sort of minor historic, karmic act. But its funny, looking around. No one cares about last year, much less 1986. There is only two weeks from now, and the sales goals therein.
Fortunately, the Sturgis Museum is as engaging as the town is not. Its a tiny building, but with two floors. A custom Henderson V-8 along with Indians, The first floor could fool you into thinking this is going to be all American and British show bikes. There’s a lone Honda Mini Trail without a museum tag, almost like a pointed joke. But downstairs, the first bike one encounters is a 1972 CB350. Turn the corner, and a plethora of motocross bikes appear. There’s even a Gold Wing and a CB750, albeit a 1979 DOHC. Its an even cross section of bikes, with Harleys at its spiritual core. To these eyes, the most fascinating bike is former Wisconsin State Senator Dave Zien’s ‘91 FXRT, on which he logged over a million miles. Every one of those miles is apparent when you see the patina of oil, grime and bumper stickers that cover the bike. Its a fascinating counterpoint to the acres of restored, gleaming chrome.
Its at this point in the story that me and Nic finally have the mother of all arguments, and part ways for the afternoon. Its not all that surprising given the stresses of our trip and the close quarters we’ve shared. Even this development has its silver lining. Where better to blow off some steam than through the bucolic roads of the Black Hills?
We took Hwy. 14 coming in, so I take Vanocker Canyon rd. out and head for wherever that takes me. Its a sunny day, 90º and my bike has nothing except me to carry for once. Besides my wife hating me, its a great day to be alive. I reacquaint myself with the art of powering through curves and the light buzz of footpegs vibrating against pavement. Living in Chicago, you might be hard pressed to remember the last turn you made that didn’t have a stoplight. But here is the perfect blend of danger, freedom and the personal responsibility to navigate between the two. It takes a few miles to settle in and find the 80th percentile of what my aging steed can safely do. There’s blessedly little traffic, so the italian tuneup can commence in full. Thirty miles of the mechanical equivalent of rolfing ensue, and my 750 gets to stretch its legs and consume the full extent of its 120 main jets. The only blemish on this tableau of riding is the poorly balanced front tire. Its a good excuse to not drop below 45 mph where the vibration sets in. Vanocker Canyon rd. runs into Nemo rd., then Hwy 385 and so I head back to Deadwood. The appetite for curves and scenery only partially sated, I reach Deadwood and promptly leave via Hwy. 14 and head west. As soon as 14 splits from 85, it follows the stream that cuts through the canyon. As the waters go, so too does the road. To call this portion of the Black Hills “scenic” is like calling the Sistine Chapel “pretty”. There’s no better way to sand the squares off your tire than by carving up these canyon roads. Its the best 14.2 miles I ride all trip long.
While I’m off in the Black Hills, Nic’s becoming acquainted with Deadwood’s wickedly steep neighborhoods, including the cemetery where Calamity Jane is buried next to Wild Bill Hickock. Figures she’d seek out Calamity Jane. We patch things up and hit the town to drink and shop for hilariously tasteless knick-knacks. No time to fight, we got more high adventure to attend to.
We say our goodbyes to Deadwood and Sturgis and head off in search of a ghost town and then Mt. Rushmore. We take Hwy. 385 south, pass the Pactola reservoir and grab a right at Hwy. 16 until we hit a strange left-hand exit at Rockerville. Rockerville was a mining town, then a touristy, Wild West stop, then nothing after the highway was widened and Rockerville was literally bypassed. Rockerville not only had the real part of itself abandoned but had its fake, Wild West tourist part abandoned as well. Nic wants to buy this town, or any town actually, so that she can live out her dream of owning “Rockville”, a town based on rock n’ roll ideals. She’d hardly have to change anything. Until over a year ago, Rockerville was for sale, but unfortunately for Nic its been sold. Today, a great diner called the Gas Light makes this abandoned town, uh, not really abandoned anymore.
