Some might call it impulsive. Perhaps spontaneous. Unexpected and unplanned, perhaps rash and even, dare I say, irresponsible. But, when the stars aligned as they sometimes do, and I found myself with work commitments fulfilled and original plans canceled, I decided on Thursday night that I was leaving for the Sturgis rally in the morning. Saddle up and ride!
The plan is really quite simple: there isn’t one. I grabbed some clothes, sunblock, toothbrush, and my riding gear. Strapped a small tent and sleeping bag to the passenger seat, made sure there was some oil on the dipstick and air in the tires, and I was off like a streak. I knew one thing: if I was going to do it, I had to make some serious time on day one. 1,000 miles.
All was smooth sailing until Illinois happened. I vote that we just get rid of the whole state. Or at least Chicagoland and it’s unbearable traffic and crooked politicians. Hours and hours of stop and go as the sun baked from above and the V-twin sauteed my legs from below. At the Wisconsin line, things looked promising. Back up to cruising speed, life was good.
I rolled up on a group of four guys who I assume by their packing, route, and speed were rolling to Sturgis as well. I’m sure they were nice enough guys, but, well, they were what you’d expect. Middle aged white dudes, no helmets, Harley shirts and/or jackets, brand new bikes. They were riding in a loose, staggered formation as prescribed by the DOT, and by loose, I mean I could have slalomed through those bitches. When I passed them (of course I did) I did it respectfully, but didn’t dally. Gave them all a friendly wave using all five fingers, and went about my business. Well, this group of RUBs decide they’re going to run with me. At least, that’s what I think they were trying to do. They were probably eight car lengths behind me, but they had to have sped up at least 10 mph to keep up. I think they were assuming that I’d get the ticket if we got pulled over, or at least I’d slow down for cops to give them warning. Or maybe they just wanted to pretend they were rolling with a “real” biker. Or perhaps they didn’t like getting passed. I really don’t know. I watched in my rearview with amusement as they navigated their elongated, mis-managed flock through a couple of slower cars. When I decided I’d had enough of their shiny-ass, freshly polished bikes following me, I turned up the wick, threaded the needle a few times, and I was gone. See ya!
Then, Madison happened. To be fair, it wasn’t just Madison. It was the two hours on either side of Madison. Apparently, they have some sort of inferiority complex and need to prove to Chicago how important they are, so stack up the orange barrels, Floyd! We’re gonna slow them sum-bitches down! While I had made nearly 400 miles before noon, at 4:30, I still was shy of 600.
I headed north out of Madison, and the sky turned dark. Really dark, and I was riding straight into the worst of it. I heard this particular storm dumped golf-ball sized hail across 44 all the way to the Wisconsin Dells. Traffic 
jams, accidents: it was chaos. But just when I thought I was really in for it, I made it to the I-39/I-90 split and my route switched from due north to west/northwest, the skies lightened, and life was good!
I pulled into a little truck stop in Sparta, WI, where I ran into an old boy heading in for his supper. He saw my bike and asked me a couple questions, then told me that he used to work at a factory that made chrome parts for MOCO. He looked at my bike in admiration, and pointed out the parts that they made. Cam chest covers, trim pieces: actually a lot of stuff. What I found most fascinating, though, was that he didn’t know what they were. They were just parts. Widgets. His comment that really struck me was that it was sure neat to see them on a bike. I can’t imagine spending a career, practically a lifetime, making widgets like cam chest covers, and never knowing really what it is, what it does, or where it goes. Humans are fascinating creatures.
The sun was low in the sky, and I was 160 miles from the South Dakota border. I was getting tired. My eyes and brain were not communicating properly. I took a break to have a snack and a smoke and stretch my legs. I saddled up and crossed into South Dakota, and the trip odo said 920 miles. This would not do. I blasted through the border city of Sioux Falls and kept on a rollin’. By this time, I was getting a little impatient after being in the saddle all day with my sautéed ass. So I was given’ it to it, crushing the miles. 940, 980, 995, finally!!! 1,000 miles.
The next town after this milestone achievement was Mitchell, SD, the next main town west of Sioux Falls. It is also apparently where rational people who plan their trips in advance book their hotel rooms. After rolling up to four different hotels and hearing the same story, I put some go-fast in the tank and hammered it down the road, until I found this fine establishment where I’m now sitting here writing this. Let’s choose to look on the bright side. It kept last night’s thunderstorm out, the shower was acceptably above luke warm, and the toilet flushes…sort of. It’s all good in the ‘hood.
Keep it shiny side up. Ride on!