It’s Sturgis Time Again!
By Kathryn E. Eriksen

If you start to notice more motorcycles on the highways at this time of year, be sure to watch which way they seem to be heading. If it is to the North or West, there is a very good chance that they are on their way to Sturgis, South Dakota.

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally will be held on August 6-12, 2007. The population of this small town in South Dakota usually stands at 6,442 hardy souls (just think of what winter must be like!). But during the entire month of August, the population swells to almost half a million hardy souls who travel from every point in the United States (and even across the ocean) to enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally was first held on August 14, 1938, when nine motorcycle racers got together to race and perform stunts. The Rally has been held on the first full week in August ever since, except during World War II. It has grown over the years to become the largest rally in the world. Attendance estimates for 2004 were 514,951 and for 2005 were 525,250.

How does such a small town handle crowds that large? According to the official Sturgis Motorcycle Rally website www.sturgismotorcyclerally.com, the event planners work all year to get ready for the Rally. The City of Sturgis is probably the only place in the country with a separate department whose sole purpose is to plan for a Motorcycle Rally!

What is the attraction of Sturgis and why have so many people embraced this phenomenon? The answers to those questions are too complex to resolve in this space, but a short answer may be that people crave freedom and a two-wheel conveyance is a quick way to find it. Riding down a two-lane highway with the wind blowing in your face and no one there but you and the road is one path to freedom. Spending time with other folks who crave the same thing is another way to enjoy that sense of freedom. The true answer is probably different for each person who attends the Rally, but all would agree that they came for the experience.

The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally provides numerous opportunities to enjoy riding and exploring the Black Hills and the surrounding countryside (Custer’s Last Stand and Mount Rushmore are both an easy day’s ride from Sturgis). The social aspect of this event cannot be minimized. Famous saloons like the Broken Spoke and The Knuckle Saloon host bands and parties. There are group rides to various destinations (with stops in-between). You can also skydive over the area, and even get married (on motorcycles, of course!) That is why, for many people, the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is their vacation destination!

Please visit these related links to learn more about this event:
www.sturgismotorcyclerally.com
www.sturgis-rally.com 
www.rally.sturgis.sd.us 

A LONG AND WINDING ROAD
THE BEST KIND, ON A HARLEY DAVIDSON
BY Kathryn E, Eriksen

"You want me to take a group motorcycle trip for 3,000 miles?" I asked my husband incredulously.

"Sure - we'll be traveling in a pack of bikes with a chase truck full of parts. Besides - these people are fun."

I mulled it over for the next month. What an adventure - to ride from Texas, through New Mexico, Colorado and Wyoming to our final destination - Sturgis, South Dakota. God, that sounded like a long way.  My heart said to “Just do it” while my "posterior" urged extreme caution.

Fortunately, I listened to my heart, and had the time of my life. Despite the old Harley saying "If I have to explain it, you wouldn't understand", I will brave censor and criticism to provide the uninitiated a glimpse of "Harley Heaven".



THE NIGHT BEFORE - DOUBTS CREEP IN

The night before we left was very hectic - we were not used to packing enough clothes for an eight-day trip that would only fit into two saddlebags and two small duffel bags. Only the essentials could be taken, which meant two pairs of blue jeans, two pairs of shoes, two shirts, underwear, socks and a bathing suit. It was definitely a lesson in frugality. The bike was repacked many times, with enough cussing to make us honorary members of any motorcycle club.
We finally got all of our things together - including the motorcycle. First time Harley riders on our first Harley. The first service on the motorcycle was due after 500 miles. Because we didn’t want that to happen on the trip, we spent every evening driving it as much as possible. I felt like we were training for an endurance event - both we and the motorcycle had to get in shape!
Doubts began to creep in beneath the surface layer of excitement, like termites into fresh wood. Were we ready to do this? Our longest ride so far was to the Texas Hill Country - about a 200 mile round trip from our house. We had committed to ride 3,000 miles - fifteen times the distance of our longest ride! The Road King, which looked so massive in the dealership, now seemed to shrink before my eyes. This fragile machine would be stout enough to carry two adults and their baggage without breaking down?
When the doubts became so loud that I couldn't think straight, I decided to turn them all loose. I was no longer in control of what might happen to us on the road, so any worrying was pointless. After reaching that searing insight, the termites (and my doubts) died a quiet death.

Besides, the road was calling to me like a siren's song. Adventure won out over anxiety, and we went to bed knowing our lives would probably be changed forever because of this trip.

THE FIRST DAY

Tom Hart, the group leader, told everyone to meet at his house outside of town at 4:30 a.m. The roosters were not even up yet! But we had to get a good start on the heat. After all, this was still August in Texas.

After some milling around in Tom's driveway, we fired up the bikes. Roy Mabry was the designated "Road Daddy". He would decide when to stop, where to stop and how fast to travel on the road. Everyone fell in behind him on the highway. Soon, our place in the formation was set. We came in fourth, behind Roy and his daughter Kelly, and Carl, a long-time Harley rider. The other ten motorcycles were behind us, like fighter pilots in formation.

When we hit Fort Worth, I suddenly realized that this was it - do or die. My perspective was changing from the back of the Harley. I noticed cars A LOT more than before and I realized that cars were now the enemy. One mistake on our part and the results would be a lot more serious for us than for the people riding on four wheels.

The entire group started to become one unit - when we passed our first slow-moving vehicle, we did it in one fluid motion. (Of course, no one on the trip will remember that the truck we passed was owned and operated by Hostess Cupcakes.  Not a very macho image for "road warriors".)

As we made our way across Texas into the Panhandle, I sensed a transformation in my husband and myself. We began to swagger a bit at every gas stop; we adopted an attitude of being "cool". The clothes helped - all black, with wrap sunglasses and bandannas tied on our heads and around our necks. The best part was when fourteen big V-Twin engines started at once, and made that distinctive "Harley" sound as we pulled out of gas stations. People always looked and smiled - what a sight!

Another thing I noticed was the reaction we received from other motorists on the highway. Adults would glance over and then not look at us directly again, but you could tell they were watching us from the corner of their eyes. Whether it was an attitude of disapproval or non-interest, I could never tell.

But the kids were a different story - they unabashedly admired us, the motorcycles and the entire spectacle. We received many enthusiastic waves and bright smiles, while our tires ate up the miles.

Our world shrank to a narrow, long, vibrating machine, but our souls opened like a budding flower turned toward the sun. We were constantly chasing the next horizon, waiting with anticipation for the wonders that appeared in front of us, above us - even right next to us.

One of the games we played on the Harley took me straight back to family vacations in the yellow Vista Cruiser (if you fail to recognize this particular General Motors product, then you definitely did not grow up in the late 1960s).

The Vista Cruiser got its name for the extra window over the second seat - temporary home for me and my brothers. The window was part of the roof - I guess you could call it a "sun roof", but it was only about six inches wide. Anyway, while we waited for Dad to make the next pit stop, we would occasionally pass a train going in our direction. If the tracks were laid out just right, and the timing of the two machines was perfect - we would pull our arms down from our ears to our shoulder - the universal signal to "blow your horn". When the locomotive blasted its horn in response, we would laugh and cheer (they hadn't invented "high fives" yet).

Those memories came rushing on the back of a 70 miles per hour wind while we cruised north on Highway 287. A long freight train was coming towards us on the left. As Dave and I glanced at it in mild fascination, Tom roared past us on his bike - making the same hand motion to BLOW YOUR HORN that we had made all those years ago. We quickly mimicked the motion. What a sight that must have been to that train engineer. Seventeen people pulling the horn string on the backs of fourteen motorcycles! Needless to say, the train horn blew as loud as I have ever heard it, and it kept reverberating in my head long after that locomotive had left us behind.

We pulled into Amarillo that afternoon, road-weary and wind-blown, but well initiated in the spoken and unspoken ways of the group. A warm shower, a wonderful steak dinner (after all, this WAS Amarillo) and a still, (non-vibrating) mattress were the final touches to a great day.

DAY 2 - REALITY SETS IN

I began to realize this was not going to be a relaxing vacation when we had to be dressed, packed, checked-out of the hotel and on the motorcycle by 6:00 a.m. One day of early rising was fine - how many more would there be on this trip? It's not that I am a slug (my normal waking time on vacation is 8:00 - but who cares - you're on vacation). But out the door by 6:00 a.m.? I was determined to not be the griper in the group, so I put on my game face and smiled at the other zombies.

Even in the summer, the temperature drops overnight in the Texas Panhandle. Harleys are known to be "cold natured" - it takes them a long time to warm up (kind of like me at 6:00 a.m.). The early morning ritual was to start all thirteen motorcycles (except for the one BMW) with full choke, and leave them running for more than five minutes. I am certain there were many people in that hotel who awakened earlier than expected that morning!

Once the engines reached a steady "Potato, Potato" rumble, the chokes were pushed in and we were off! Fort Collins, Colorado was our destination, only 480 miles and five gas stops away.

Our reward for getting up so early soon became apparent After about thirty minutes of riding in total darkness, glowing colors slowly appeared to our right. Just as our headlights pierced the black curtain of darkness, the first rays of the sun pierced the horizon. Streaks of color were painted across that vast stretch of canvas sky, with breathtaking effect. The sunrise touched all of us; it pierced our slumbering souls and united us in a bond of glorious color.

We stopped to take pictures, but man's camera lens does not even come close to recreating that majesty. Every one spoke in hushed tones, sharing the moment. And then we rode on into the unexpected.

The sunrise had lulled us into a trance - we forgot that the darkness hid some extremely bland and brown terrain. It was as if God was trying to make up for the nondescript landscape by giving us a spectacular light show. Soon the sun became harsh and our skin began to burn, just as the landscape around us blistered in the heat. We passed miles and miles of open land - vast stretches that dulled our senses with endless monotony.

Just when my mind was numb with the sameness of it all, a yellow streak appeared in front of us. It was not the sun (I knew its exact position by the burning sensation on my arms). This fluorescent-colored object was ahead of us at about 11:00 o'clock. Just when I was about to ask Dave what he thought it was, we both realized at the same moment that a crop duster had joined our group. We waved enthusiastically to him and I could see his gloved hand briefly in the window. He banked away from us and took off to complete his day's work. I watched him leave with regret and realized that his world was no different than ours. We were all exploring new horizons.

My posterior began to make itself known. We had been riding for about ninety minutes and I was ready to stretch. Unfortunately, the passenger sitting on a Road King does not have any place to stretch. Just when I thought rigor mortis was about to take over my lower limbs, something whooshed by us. I glimpsed the yellow streak of the single prop plane just as he swooped down to telephone line level and joined our group for a timeless moment.

Every person in the group jumped - it was startling and exhilarating at the same time. Like coming over the crest of a new roller coaster, when you did not realize the other side dropped down into infinity. His plane was so close we could have touched it, had we dared. A quick pull on the stick and the nose of the little plane rose dramatically, raising the machine at a steep angle. When he cleared the high wires, he turned directly over the road, giving us a proud salute with his wings winking in the sun. Camaraderie between men and machines - is that what we shared in that timeless moment?

I pondered that question for the next fifty miles. Unexpected moments like that glistened with intensity - our growing necklace of memories were studded with the jewels of glowing sunrises and sparkling yellow crop dusters.

We made it to the New Mexico border and stopped to take pictures of everyone standing in front of the "Welcome to New Mexico - Land of Enchantment" sign. One other significant event occurred - everyone took off their helmets, tied them down on the back of their bikes, and cheered. Texas was the only state on our journey that required motorcyclists to wear helmets. Although I did not take advantage of this opportunity, a majority of the group did.

Hair now blowing in the breeze, we made it to Colorado with no mishaps. The stately Rockies stood at attention on our left, while the vast prairie lay sleeping on our right. The mountains welcomed us with a forty mile an hour cross wind. The blasts seemed like a giant’s hand ready to pluck me from the back of the motorcycle! Everyone leaned into the wind and we motored on.

We decided to take a lunch break in Trinidad - a small mining town that bordered both sides of Interstate 25. For some reason, Tom decided to lead the way, instead of Roy. Several people in the group began shaking their heads - they knew what was coming. The rest of us blindly followed behind. It soon became apparent even to us (the uninitiated) that we were lost.


We ended up in a parking lot next to a Mexican Restaurant with a large "CLOSED" sign in the front window. Tom insisted that this was THE PLACE. Our laughter was a cruel companion as he sauntered across the street to the front door. The emphatic refusal he received from the woman who answered got us all laughing again, especially when he pleaded with her, his body language speaking volumes about the desperate levels he would resort to if she refused him. Alas, none of his persuasive arguments won, and he had to make that walk toward us alone.

Tom is anything but resourceful, and you could almost see his brain working on this dilemma as he slowly approached us. He surprised us all when he made a sudden left turn and calmly approached an older, American Indian-looking man sporting a long, white ponytail riding on a dilapidated bicycle. Although none of us could hear the conversation, Tom charmed him immediately and soon we had our native guide (no pun intended). We were lead to downtown Trinidad, fourteen motorcycles following an aged, impromptu leader, laughing all the way. The residents of Trinidad saw a colorful parade that day, and their appreciation warmed our hearts. Our destination was finally reached and we descended upon a small, homey restaurant that was definitely not prepared for seventeen hungry people, all wearing black.

Our adventures were piling up like gaily wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. And we had only been riding for a day and a half! What else lay ahead?

We pulled out of Trinidad, said goodbye to our new friends and rumbled back onto the Interstate. Denver was our next obstacle. We had been warned by other experienced riders that Denver traffic was bad - the motorists were aggressive, rude and did not care if you were on two wheels instead of four. It was every man (and woman) for themselves. We entered the outskirts of the mile high city with some trepidation.

By now it was Sunday afternoon - the weather had turned cloudy and the sky was threatening. As we approached downtown Denver, the lanes narrowed and the cars crowded our space that was now lined with concrete. The group was forced to split up because of traffic - suddenly, we were alone in a harsh and unforgiving environment. As the 18 wheelers sucked the wind, creating swirling eddies of turbulent air, and the crazed motorists battled for position with our tiny machine, I hung on for dear life and prayed like a convert. With a final twist of the throttle, we were through!

Our final test that day still lay ahead. We noticed other groups of riders, traveling in packs, wearing their club's logo on the back of their vests. We waved or nodded as we passed them on the side of the highway. It soon became apparent why they stopped - the rain that had been threatening all afternoon suddenly chose that moment to make itself known.

You have never experienced rain until you are riding on the back of a motorcycle through a Colorado summer, wearing a cotton T-shirt and blue jeans. Cold water hit our bare skin at 65 miles per hour. Stinging our arms and faces, we both tried to duck behind the windshield. Ahead of us, Roy and his daughter valiantly led the way through the storm.

We kept waiting for the signal from Roy to pull over and stop under a bridge, so the rain suits could be put to use. Every underpass was filled with cyclists doing just that - why couldn't we?

About fifteen minutes later, we literally drove out of the rain and into the sunshine. Our tense position behind the meager protection of the windshield loosened up and we sat up straight again. It was not until we reached the hotel sometime later that the riddle about the rainsuits was solved - Roy LOVED to ride his motorcycle in the rain!

DAY THREE - STURGIS, SOUTH DAKOTA

Our routine was now set - up at 5:00 a.m., get dressed, scrounge something to eat, pack up the bike, warm it up and be on the road by 6:00 a.m. I really did not mind getting up that early, because we were going to reach Sturgis today. And spend three days in one place!

We made it to Wyoming, stopped and had breakfast. Lunch came and went in some nameless town. We began spotting more and more groups of Harleys, all riding to Mecca and the City of Oz. A nod or a nonchalant wave of the left hand was sufficient to acknowledge our common goal.

Our true Harley initiation came in Cheyenne Crossing, South Dakota. This outpost is located at the intersection of two highways, and it has been a beer stop and Harley hangout ever since the Black Hills Rally started.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I was dazzled by the sheer number of Harleys - everything from stock motorcycles to custom bikes, with enough chrome to startle Elvis. We parked our "Hog" and shook out the road dust.

The beer truck was right behind - what a welcome sight! The truck was owned and driven by none other than "Beer Boy Bob", the husband of Susan, who was riding her very own Heritage Soft Tail Classic. Beer Boy Bob had a very important job on the trip - to fix any bike that broke down, to carry spare parts, and to be at each beer stop with the ice chests full of cold cerveza. We all tipped our helmets to him at Cheyenne Crossing, because the dust of Wyoming still clogged our throats.

We partied for about an hour, then got back on the road. But we were now in the Black Hills - that special part of South Dakota where legends lived. We rode through Spearfish Canyon, in awe of the towering pines, rushing river and scenic overlooks. We had truly entered motorcycle paradise.

The group dropped us off at our hotel in the town of Spearfish. We arranged to meet them later that night in Sturgis at the infamous Broken Spoke Saloon. The Broken Spoke is only opened three weeks of the year - the week before, the week of and the week after the Rally. They make all their money for the year during those twenty-one days; a fun statistic to know and tell, but one that does not really hit home until you have been at the Broken Spoke during Rally week.

The crush of leather, fringe and silver was amazing - we wandered through the crowd looking for our group, trying not to gawk (we did not want to become casualties during a drunken brawl). Fortunately, we found our group and the place became somewhat respectable.

Tom insisted that we check out "Dirty Bill's" - a leather shop where you could buy custom-fit leather chaps (similar to what cowboys wear, but designed for motorcycle riders). Dirty Bill's also sold leather vests with hand-tooled designs and other necessary motorcycle paraphernalia.

Dirty Bill's also had dozens of patches - to be sewn on vests, jackets, hats or whatever. We were going through the boxes with patches that said "Harley" or "Heritage", looking for something we wanted. I picked up one that said "DILLIGAF", and it started quite a discussion about what it stood for. Another customer overheard us and supplied the missing information. “Dilligaf” stand for “Do I look like I give a f---“. Well, that brought the house down, and several people had to have one. Bill had the "DILLIGAF" patch sewn on his leather vest, along with a "I rode Mine - Sturgis '96" patch. We were now all decked out and ready to check out main street.

The scene that greeted us was indescribable - thousands of Harleys, and thousands of people all hemmed in by the streets and the turn-of-the century buildings. A verbal description pales in comparison to the real thing. Downtown Sturgis during Rally Week has to be experienced personally!

We wandered around gawking at the amazing display of chrome, leather and paint (on the machines as well as the people). Everyone was friendly, because a common thread tied us all together; a two-wheel phenomenon called "Harley Davidson". This is what we rode the last two and a half days for - to be part of this larger experience. Is the journey or the destination more important? I could make convincing arguments for either answer.

We enjoyed the sights and sounds of Sturgis, then braved the cold trip back to our hotel in Spearfish - about fifteen miles away. Temperatures in the Black Hills drop drastically even in the summer - by the time we saw the Best Western sign, we were almost frozen to the motorcycle. The joys of riding a bike as your only transportation had just come sharply into focus!

DAY FOUR - THE BLACK HILLS

We slept until 7:00 a.m. - what a luxury! Because we were late in meeting everyone for breakfast, we hurried to get dressed and arrive at the restaurant in downtown Sturgis before they left. They were on their way out the door, but we arranged to meet them at the Exxon station near the highway.

Once we caught up with the group, we rode to Rapid City to visit the Harley Davidson store. The store sits off the highway on about five acres of land. What is normally a very tranquil setting under tall pine trees was transformed into a mini downtown Sturgis. Motorcycles were parked in uniform rows but stretched endlessly to the edge of the lot. People of all shapes and sizes were wandering around looking at the bikes and talking to each other. A party atmosphere buzzed through the air.

We shopped inside the store and then followed Tom out to the parking lot to start our ride through the Black Hills. From Rapid City we drove to Keystone, then on up to Mount Rushmore. The two-lane highway was filled with motorcyclists - streams of bikes that flowed ahead, behind and directly toward us. There were no more friendly waves - everyone knew why the other people were there - to experience all of this on the back of a motorcycle. No acknowledgments were necessary - just being there participating was acknowledgment enough.

We arrived at the base of Mt. Rushmore about l:00 p.m. Glimpses of the monument had teased us during the ride up the mountain, but to see it in all of its glory was breathtaking. We parked the bikes and split up to enjoy the view.

When we came back down the trail, Tom was visiting with a group of elderly women, who seem fascinated with him and the motorcycles. As we approached, Tom put each arm around one of his admirers, and grinned at the camera. Another great moment frozen in time.

We climbed back on board (the passenger seat now had my particular imprint on it) and drove through Custer State Park. Never did see a buffalo - but the landscape was beautiful. Needles Highway also held some amazing rock formations. Roy brought the entire group to an unexpected stop to view the "Needles" (and to get a beer!)

The great touring day was capped off with another night at the Broken Spoke. We made the chilly ride back to our hotel, grateful for heated rooms in August.

DAY FIVE - THE TRIP BACK HOME

For three days we were almost normal people on vacation, waking up later than usual, enjoying the first steaming cup of coffee while reading the local newspaper. Today we were back to "Harley" mode - up earlier than the sun after too little time spent asleep. The early morning start took its toll. I made the unforgivable decision to ride in the truck with Bob, instead of on the back of the Harley. I was too tired to care about the razzing I received, but I also noticed a few wistful looks at the empty seat in the truck. If I could read minds.

We began the long trek home, reversing our route. The Black Hills receded from view, but not from our memories. Soon the landscape turned from brilliant green to dull brown. Wyoming was closing in on us. Today the destination superseded the journey. Estes Park, Colorado glimmered off our imaginations as a distant, unreachable goal.

We pulled into Estes Park just about dusk. The sun had already set behind the mountains and the chill in the air intensified with every white breath we took. We rolled into the hotel, road weary and saddle sore. Rest and relaxation were the primary goals for everyone.

DAY SIX - THE MOUNTAINS

Waking up in the mountains is glorious - the air is crisp, promising enticing moments of sheer joy. After breakfast, we put on our cold weather gear (leather, leather, leather) and climbed on board. A drive through Rocky Mountain National Park was on the agenda.

One third of the Park is above the tree line. As we drove through the great forests, the road ahead kept rising higher above our heads. Soon the pine trees were left behind and we were encased in the sparse world of the alpine tundra. The barren landscape was dotted with surprises - flowers peeked from behind craggy faces; chipmunks scattered about looking for free handouts. Totally overpowering these vignettes hung the shimmering beauty of the mountains. One thing about a motorcycle - you are definitely a part of the world you are riding through. No isolating barriers exist between you and a thousand-foot drop waiting at the edge of the road. The adrenalin rush was magnificent!

Some of the bikes experienced air bubbles in the brake lines. Definitely not something you want to happen when you are riding in the mountains. We stopped at the visitor center at the top of Trail Ridge Road, and Bob went to work. Several minutes later, we were on our way again.

Leaving the Park behind, we traveled through several mountain passes. Colorado highways are steep, curved and very stimulating on a motorcycle. The group stayed together, except for several determined drivers who managed to squeeze in between us.

Rain threatened us for the second time during the entire trip. We could see the dark, glowering storm clouds gathering ahead of us at Loveland Pass. We braced ourselves for the onslaught, but managed to duck inside the tunnel before being pummeled too badly.

The tunnel was amazing - light from outside quickly receded. The interior lights on the ceiling and walls made the entire trip through very surreal. The rumbling of the Harleys, combined with fourteen horns sounding at the same time, enhanced the other world effect. The icing on the cake happened on the other side - as we came out of the tunnel, the sun broke through the clouds and the world glistened. Rain on one side, sunshine on the other. Could be a one-liner for life's ups and downs.

We rode on until the next gas stop. The original route was altered when the man inside the station told us that Highway 9 would give us a wonderful view of Colorado back roads. We took his advice and found paradise.

Riding on Highway 9 made me realize what a unique experience this entire trip had become - seventeen people trusted the advice of a total stranger, just because we were interested in adventure, not the Interstate. We had enough flexibility in our schedule to follow our instincts, and we were rewarded richly for it.

Highway 9 opened up new horizons for us. It is a two- lane road that winds behind the mountains, through  verdant meadows and tantalizing forests. We never saw another vehicle the entire fifty miles we explored. The world could have come to an end and each one of us would have been happy because, for those few moments, our lives were perfect.

We stopped at a wide spot in the road, and silently got off our bikes. After the last cylinder fired, silence settled in like a gentle mantle. No one said a word. Any feeble comment on the peace and beauty that filled that valley would have marred its meaning. Each person understood in their own way what the profound silence meant. Again, the old Harley saying applies - "if we have to explain it, you wouldn't understand."

Reluctantly, we disturbed the silence and left Highway 9, vowing to return next year. Pueblo was still our destination, and many more miles of road had to be traveled. Reality entered our world again, and we pushed forward.

We came down from the mountains at Canyon City. The valley floor rose up in front of us, beckoning us onward. Dusk was rapidly approaching behind us. Glaring flashes of lightening on the horizon motivated even the most tired to continue - the siren song of the road was drowned out by hunger, thirst, and the over powering need to sit still, without vibration, noise, or the ever present companion of the motorcyclist - the wind.

We found our hotel and got situated. Pizza delivery was never so welcome.

DAY SEVEN - BACK TO TEXAS

The Texas border came too quickly. Helmets were dug out of saddle bags and the grumbling started - "why can't they just leave us alone?" and "I’ll make the decision to wear the d--- thing, not the government." When the helmets were defiantly in place, the emotional tone of the trip also changed - it was as if a lid had closed on our enthusiasm. The adventurous spirit that had guided us for the last week was shoved back into the genie bottle. We would long wistfully for these glorious days of freedom, but only the magic words (and another Harley vacation) would set the genie free.

The fresh air of the Rockies was quickly replaced by the stifling heat of a Texas summer day. The leather apparel quickly found a new home inside the packs, and cotton t-shirts became our colors. Fighting the urge to nod off, we made our way into Amarillo.

The only exciting thing that happened was the lone BMW rider in the group kept us entertained with his antics on the motorcycle. Peter’s motorcycle was a different breed of machine from the Harleys - nimble and quick, with effortless grace. And all of this magic was accomplished without hardly a sound!

Peter’s favorite maneuver on the highway was to get behind the Harleys and “dance between the lines”. His motorcycle would zigzag back and forth in one fluid motion, between the painted lines on the highway. It didn’t matter if we were riding on a four-lane divided highway or a much smaller two-lane road. It was sometimes nerve-racking to watch him cut it close on the two-lane roads, with a massive 18 wheeler barreling toward us.  And who said only Harley riders were crazy!

As we pulled up to the hotel, I wondered if anyone else felt changed, somehow different from one week earlier when we first pulled into this same hotel. I certainly sensed a difference, but I could not articulate the feeling. Because it was our last night together, everyone agreed to change and enjoy dinner at the steakhouse.

Dinner was great - lots of toasts and retelling funny stories from this trip and past adventures. The wine flowed freely and our table of fourteen became quite vocal.

Toward the end of the evening, two women stopped and asked Tom where we were from. That was the only encouragement he needed - they quickly learned where we had just been and where we were heading. A gleam appeared in one woman's eye when she asked Tom, "Are those your Harleys outside?" Tom, of course, said “Why yes." Then he asked the fatal question, “Would you like a ride?”

Tom obviously chose his quarry well. Without a moment's hesitation, she said “YES!” and they were out the door. I am still in awe of that woman's lack of restraint around a Harley (or maybe it was Tom, I was never sure). Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, they were back, and I never saw anyone so radiant (the woman, not Tom). The Harley ride certainly made her night!

DAY EIGHT - HOME AGAIN

More slogging through the Texas Panhandle. I kept looking for our crop duster friend, but he was no where in sight. The trains continued to play our game - and we always obliged them with friendly waves and the thumbs up sign.

Our last rest stop before reaching Fort Worth proved memorable. Several of the riders who had made the trip before knew what was coming - but Dave and I were blissfully unaware. It was not until we were all sitting around the concrete table and silence fell that I knew something was up.

Tom looked quietly around the group. and said in a low, deep voice how much this trip meant to him. Then it was each person's turn to say something. Although I do not remember the exact words of what was said that hot afternoon, it was a powerful feeling to be part of a cohesive group. We had all shared in a unique experience and had been changed because of it. Perhaps that was the true meaning of this trip - to change yourself requires life experiences; to experience life, you have to change.

We finally rumbled into our driveway at dusk, tired, sweaty and dirty. But grinning the entire time.

"You want to go next year?" my husband murmured softly in my ear as he hugged me.

Without hesitation, I said "You bet!"