A motorcycle blog on the Black Hills area

[aviationfred]

This is a blog from a Wichita rider who travels and writes on his experiences. I found this particular blog interesting, as Sturgis is in full swing at tne moment and the 2015 Central FJ rally will be held in the area. The link has photos along with the write up.

http://motorcyclelog.wordpress.com/2014/07/27/independence-ride-part-4-the-black-hills-deadwood-and-deerfield-lake/

Independence Ride Part 4: The Black Hills Deadwood and Deerfield Lake

July 27, 2014


I awake in my Marmot one man tent to light and the early  morning sound of birds. It's chilly as I crawl out of the cozy mummy bag and start putting on my clothes from yesterday, which will be my clothes for the next few days. A black wicking tee-shirt, marino wool sweater, jeans, and boots. I climb out of the tent and start breaking camp, I eat some almonds and dates then load up and roll out. The morning is cold in motion and it is beautiful beyond what words I have. The road swings though the pines, the engine growls and the tires bite the curves, as the sun peaks over the hills through the pines casting long morning shadows, dark, when under the peaks, blazing sun on shimmering dew drenched trees and grass when in the valley. Mist rising from valleys and ponds, fog draped across the two lane ribbon as I descend the valley to ride though it. I see in my rear view that the fog as been parted in two symmetrical coils, lazy drifting after the disturbance of my passing.

I arrive in Custer for gas and breakfast. I find a little dinner that is decorated in equal parts Betty Boop and Grateful Dead.


I write drink coffee and plan my next leg. Deadwood and secondarily  Sturgis. Sturgis I have little interest in, its known the world over, and people come from all over with motorcycles flown or hauled in. The first week of August is probably crazy. There are a lot of motorcycles here anyway, it's great riding, canyons, curves and mountains. Deadwood holds a lot of appeal. I watch the HBO series years ago and that piqued my interest in the town.

The ride from Custer to Deadwood was shorter than expected after two days of long riding everything was getting easier, I left Custer at 8 AM and was in Deadwood by 10:30. I stopped in a coffee shop for a cappuccino and wound up talking with the owner for a long time. She'd just moved back from Las Vegas to start up her own thing. She was starting with coffee and  light lunch items and she had plans of putting in a glass blowing studio. Really she wants the glass blowing studio to be the focal point of the place. It's called the Pumphouse. She tells me that she grew up in Deadwood, and that if there was one week she'd like to leave Deadwood, it's the week of the Sturgis rally. Apparently, people in large numbers can be jerks. This is the way I like to travel, I show up to a coffee shop, I'm the only customer, I have the great fortune of talking with the owner at length about the town, her business, and her thoughts. Sturgis is good for business, but money isn't everything. I ask her what she does for fun in Deadwood. She tells me that she goes for hikes. Roger that. I tell her that I'm looking for some good roads to ride in the area, to take it in, she directs me to Spearfish Canyon, and Vanocker Canyon. I ask her, "When you go for a drink here, where do you go?" She says that most of the service people she knows go to the Casino Bar in Center City. Perfect. I stop by the Deadwood museum and take in the actual history of the town as opposed to the HBO history of the town, I won't go in to detail, here, but if your ever in Deadwood you should take time to see the  Adams  Museum. The hand that Wild Bill Hickcock (Aces and Eights) was holding when he was gunned down is there. And you get a taste for Deadwood's lurid past. It was in 1980 when Federal and State Authorities shut down Deadwoods brothels.  Prostitution was as much a part of the community as any other business.

After leaving the Adams Museum, I head north out of town and pick up I-90 and head west towards Spearfish Canyon for some relaxing and scenic riding.


After carving though the Spearfish Canyon, I headed back  though Deadwood to Sturgis South Dakota. I cannot tell you how glad I am the rally is over a month away. There are plenty of bikers around and I can't imagine this place in full swing. Too many people for me, too many people who are in it for the t-shirt, the antics, to pretend they are something they are not, and ultimately, dilute what the Sturgis rally was about.  You see this sort of thing all over. Aspen Colorado and Telluride Colorado are great examples of cities, that got "discovered" and then turned into Disney-esque theme parks of themselves. Sturgis is much the same. In 2012 440,000 riders showed up. Putting that in perspective, that's every man woman and child in my hometown of Wichita Kansas on a motorcycle. To me that sounds like a horrible cluster fuck of alcohol, new riders, 1%ers, and trailer bikes.

Right now, it's quiet... ish... I head to a bar and grill get some food and a beer and take in the place.


An easy Saturday Noontime retreat in Sturgis South Dakota. I'm writing in my log book listening to a conversation about R.U.B.s (Rich Urban Bikers) vs Bikers and the political history of some Motorcycle Club. To me that political shit just takes the fun out of motorcycles. I ride to get away from herd politics. I find it ridiculous that some one gets a motorcycle to assert there individuality then joins an M.C. to throw themselves back in the shackles of group think. Or maybe I haven't found a group that thinks enough like me for me to want to join. Any way I just wanna ride.  Motorcycles can help solve personal issues, they increase engagement and awareness of one's surroundings, awareness that death and tragedy is always a possibility at any given time, this is part of the exhilaration. That existential awareness is why I ride. My mind is free, and it is totally mine.

I finish my food and beer, and head down Vanocker Canyon. I love the feeling of having no place to be and just letting the wind blow me there.  The wind blows me all the way to Rapid City when I realize I've missed a turn somewhere. So I back track, get myself righted and head back towards Deadwood and Center City. I've been riding for a few hours and some time out of the saddle is a good think

Toni, back at the Pumphouse suggested that I check out the Casino Bar in Center city so here I am.

r002-026

The interior is dark, smokey and woody. The 80 year old bartender, Darline is a pistol. I order a Coors and go sit out side.

There are a few bikers sitting around shooting the shit, none of them are patched, just out for a Saturday stroll in the Black hills, they're all from neighboring towns. Conversation gets struck up. And I meet Greg and Shannon from Rapid City. I ask their thoughts on Sturgis. Greg says "Ohhh Shit I'm old enough to remember when Sturgis was fun. Now it's just too many people." He lays it out for me, tells me where I should camp tonight, tells me about two bars, one is the Moonshine Gulch in Rochford the other is the Mangy Moose in Hill City.  He gives me directions, and his phone number just in case, tells me if I need to crash I can stay with him and Shannon. Now this is hospitality. This is unexpected. Trust. Part of me wanted to take them up on that, but it's really not what this trip is about. I feel completely welcome here.

After an hour or so, I load back up and head toward the Moonshine Gulch, when I get to Rochford I see it. and it is a building that looks like it has been a saloon since the late 1800s, I've just left one bar, and I decide to ride on to Hill City and the Mangy Moose.

Fear and Loathing at the Mangy Moose.

Everything I can't stand about American Consumerism and Motorcycles is embodied in Hill City. Across the street from the Mangy Moose is what I assume to be a motorcycle shop, given the shield and bar sign. I walk in and ask for chain lube. Kind of a stretch for a Harley shop because they are belt driven machines these days, but maybe... the woman looks at me completely confused. Oh man that's not a good sign, she shows me  a kiosk with a lot of chrome polish, synth oil,  wax and the like. I notice the smell of the place. It smells like Dillards. I stop for a moment and look around. It's 97% clothing and a kiosk. I'm way off. Ok thank you ma'am and never mind.

I walk back across to the Drooling Moose Knuckle to get some food and try a local brew. The place is crawling with new riders. I get the sense that these are fairly wealthy people, who have the latitude to purchase a biker identity. There is something here that makes me recoil, I put myself on the front patio, near the rear in a corner, with my ride and the bar in clear view. I watch an older woman park her Dynoglide next to my bike. It was like watching a monkey fuck a foot ball. She was VERY new to motorcycles, and the Dynoglide was almost too much bike for her to handle. I had the feeling her husband  (who had parked and went in the bar, leaving her to fend for herself) had talked her into this. It did not seem like her thing. I sat quietly. Apprehensive that she would slam into my bike, knocking it over, into the bike on the other side, causing a Hollywood cascade of domino bikes. She get's it parked, finally and barely. Then she dismounts, and struts, STRUTS, inside, sunglasses on, short dyed reddish brown hair, and a scowl on her face. that seem to say "I meant to do that"

All the men seem to be trying to out man each other, there is loud talking, and laughter that has no light to it. This is a penis waggling competition. I have to go to the bathroom, so I find the mens room and  find a urinal. This really would be a non event, who doesn't piss and shit right? But a motorcycle rider walks in, sees me at the unrinal relieving myself, and instead of taking the other urinal goes to the furthest stall. I hear a zipper.. and nothing. I was my hands, no relief from the man is heard. It could be anything, he could have a colostomy bag for all I know, but my empathetic side tells me this man is filled with fear. Some call it pee shy, stage fright. I've had this happen to me more than a few times, But it says a lot about the character of the person in this bar. If you are comfortable with yourself  and who you are there is no need for airs and pomp. You just are.  When you are putting on airs, seeing yourself on a stage, if you feel yourself a fraud or an actor, the minute you have to do something real and human, freeze up. Something is very wrong with us when we can't relieve ourselves when we need to. Perhaps we are too busy imagining how we look to others, as if we are watching ourselves on T.V.  I see the issue the man may be having, I see it in myself, I see aspects of myself in these people, and it's aspects of myself that I don't like. I don't want to be an actor in my life. I want to live it.

The thought passes, and I return to my table, my beer and my forgettable burrito. I finish quickly and leave. I can barely mount my bike because the woman parked so close. The pegs are nearly tangled. It takes me a few adjustments to get my bike out with out touching hers.

I stop for gas, water and a six pack of Pile o Dirt porter. The sun is getting low I'm headed for Deerfield lake to camp out.

It was starting to rain that late afternoon mountain rain. I'd set up the tent, wrote for a bit, and went for a walk down to Dearfield lake, the sun was stark against the scattered thunder heads. I could hear thunder in the distance. The air is still. I hike down to the lake. Everything around me has stopped. there is no sound. no wind no bugs no birds no people. It's raining slightly. The sun is setting behind the peak of a far off mountain across the lake. The sun hits the water just right to make the ripples look like concentric electric circles of light in a pool of liquid black. I have two frames left on this role of 36. If I hike back to get another role I will miss this moment. I take this shot.

deerfield

And at this very moment I hear nothing. Utter silence. Zen. I sit at the edge of the lake on petrified wood chips. I don't want this moment to end. This is the whole trip right here. I am internally quiet, there is no thought on my mind other than what my eyes see, I am one man momentarily alone and inexorably connected to something much greater. Profound. Unexplainable. Spiritual. The Universe. A Moment.

The moment passes. I hear birdsong and voices bounce across the lake. I stand up and begin walking back to camp. Reeling with delight from the experience.

The camp host Roger is an older man that likes beer, he came by to collect my fee and asked me if I needed anything, I said I'd like some wood and matches, he told me to hop in his truck and he'd get me set up, three or four beer cans fell out. Alright. he gets me set up with water proof matches, starter sticks and wood. I make it back to camp, and start building a fire. The matches don't work it's as if The Universe was trying to tell me something. Do not light a fire. Deerfield lake. Silence. Water Flowing Taoist. Fire. Willpower. Gumption. The birth of industry is in those flames. The birth of society. Community and Politics. Fire the caveman's T.V.  I try to write by fire light, I wind up drinking beer and star gazing under the pines blowing gently in the wind produced by a distant storm. I fall asleep on a picnic table under the stars, I'm awakened by rain, and move to the tent for dry sleep.

[The General]

Interesting read. A little too sobering for me but can appreciate his track. (Some good pics...looks like a great ride at specific times of the year.)

Everything I can't stand about American Consumerism and Motorcycles is embodied here"..........We really don`t get that in Queensland anymore! 

......hope he doesn`t mind, but I`ve filed away the mental picture of the monkey with the football for a possible copyright breach in the future. 

[Arnie]

Thanks for posting that, Fred.  Good read, I enjoyed it.