The Journey

I remember riding in the cool of the night.  Watching the moon move ever toward the horizon.  Occasionally, there would be a falling star to wish upon, if you believe in such things.  Later, weariness would begin to take over.  We’d find a grassy spot next to the highway and lay down to sleep.  In the few hours before dawn, we’d be on the road again, first West then North.  The sun would break over our shoulders and the blackness would soon take the shape of rolling prairie.  The road would continue on, never ending before us.  Oh, the adventure of it!

Later, the freshness of morning gave way to the sweltering heat of afternoon.  The passage of time seemed non-existent – the bleak landscape of inner continent sand dunes seemed never to change.  Then, the suddenness of it was a surprise.  Again, there were cool breezes and rolling hills of grass.  The hills soon became the towering mountains of the Black Hills.  The road turned winding and tree lined.  Through the passes and tunnels that still bore the scars of the diggers.  Until finally our two rumbling Harleys joined others of their kind in the small town referred to by some as the Mecca of our world, Sturgis, South Dakota.

The anticipation that began the year before at the end of the last pilgrimage gives way to the excitement of the end of the journey.  The rumble of two becomes the roar of a hundred thousand as we jostle for position in the never ending parade on Main Street.  The vibration created by the sheer numbers can be felt through out our whole bodies – by everyone there.  Each bike, each face is different but the sparkle in each set of eyes says the same thing; it’s finally Bike Week and we have arrived!

Pinkie

2004