Day 25 - Spearfish SD to ???
Saturday July 23
Here was the official plan for the day:
The Black Hills, The Badlands, and ??? 400 miles planned, for 6544 total
While loading up the bike in the morning, I struck up a conversation with an older fellow who was ALREADY there for the Sturgis rally, which didn't start for another couple of weeks. He had trailered out his Yamaha chromed up cruiser thingy from Atlanta, behind a beautiful convertible '57 Chevy. I'd guess he was in his 60's but trim and fit with a full head of long flowing blonde hair. I suppose one thing that might be enjoyable about the Sturgis rally would be just meeting the characters.
The whole area is ate up with the Sturgis thing. Restaurants and bars have names that, I suppose, are supposed to sound like "biker patois". Everything is "Big Momma's..." this, or "Dirty Dan's..." that, or whatever. I just don't get the attraction.
Anyway, back to the motel. I noticed my rear tire was badly squared off, to the point that I wondered how much rubber was left for the slab. I normally visually check it when I need to add air, and I think it had been a couple of days. It looked fine last time I looked.
I was concerned - given that I had about another 1000 miles of straitflat to go after the last of the twisties. I am pretty sure it was my lightspeed jaunt along 14 from Sheridan to Gillette that had done most of the squaring.
I made a few calls to see about an economical replacement, but I wasn't thrilled about that option, because I really thought an ME880 should last me more than 5000 miles. Plus the last thing I want to do with a brand new tire is run 1000 miles of slab on it - that's what I want to do to finish one off. Nobody had anything close to what I wanted for anywhere near what I wanted to pay.
I decided to just keep a careful eye on it, and deal with it if I started to see or feel anything spooky.
I hit the road a little after nine, and immediately dove into the best roads the Black Hills has to offer. 14A south out of Spearfish puts you on the Spearfish Canyon road, which is very enjoyable and beautiful. If you catch it on a weekday without much traffic it is probably a real hoot, but there was enough traffic that there wasn't much point in trying to strafe it. I just laid back and enjoyed the ride.
After the canyon, 14A runs through Lead and Deadwood and into Sturgis. Though the roads are fine, I can't think of any reason to choose any of these towns as a destination.
I took I-90 down to 3 south, Vanacker Canyon Road. I don't think there are any secret roads around here, but Vanacker might be the closest thing to it. Quite a challenging and fun ride in the absence of traffic and law enforcement. I saw little of the former and none of the latter.
I linked up with Nemo road, made my way to 395 south. Just before turning on 395 I saw this. I don't know why, but it caught my eye and I had to take a picture of it:
I call it "Blue Bug In Hay Field"
I took a side trip down 16 to see the Crazy Horse memorial. Worthwhile. I doubt any of us around now will live to see it completed, but it is impressive already and will be amazing when it is done.
Just after I snapped this picture a guy on a bike came up behind me and said "nice bike!" I noticed he was on a 2003 ST1300 also and said "We must shop at the same store". He motored off before I had a chance to chat with him.
I retraced my steps to enter Custer State Park via 87 - the Needles Highway. Spectacular scenery, narrow stone tunnels, and everything from super tight switchbacks to sweeping curves.
The tunnels are one-lane, and you usually cannot see whether there are oncoming cars until you enter it. In the absence of any form of traffic control, the whole thing seems to be run by balls and anarchy. It being Saturday, the traffic was not great but things seemed to flow ok.
A tunnel on the Needles Highway
I did encounter the "park disease", just like in Yellowstone, where people feel free to stop in the middle of the road whenever they spot any wildlife. Grrrr...
I continued south on 87 to link up with the "Wildlife Loop". It was mid-day, so I didn't really expect to see much wildlife, except for maybe some buffalo.
Now, let's have a couple of words about buffalo. Sure, they seem all relaxed and lethargic - but this would be a mistaken impression.
Last year, in Yellowstone, I made the dumb *** mistake of riding too close to a buffalo that was munching grass on the roadside, with his hind feet on the road. "Just move over and ease around him" I says to myself.
Well, just as we passed astern, he turned his head, fixed us with a "Who do you think you are" look, and kicked. Jane, who got a better look at the kick than I did, figures it missed us by no more than a couple of inches. Wouldn't that have been a fun insurance report!
And I recall reading not too long ago about a fellow rider who, on this very road, encountered a LARGE bull buffalo that felt the motorcycle was some sort of challenge to his manhood, or buffalohood. Apparently there were some tense moments, with few options for our brother rider, before the buff opted for peace with honor.
Suffice it to say I have MUCHO respect for buffalo, and wanted no close encounters of any kind.
So as I came upon this scene...
...and by the way all of those cars are stopped... I was inclined to take my photos from a distance, and work my way through and past the conflagration as unobtrusively as possible.
I eased my way along, and just as I entered a little low-water bridge over a creek, I saw that there were buffalo on the other side of the bridge, crossing the road. Lots of them.
I stopped to wait until they were finished. However, one cow with a couple of calves thought that crossing the bridge would be a good idea, and she - with 2 calves, turned straight for me.
I have read that the only buffalo more dangerous than a bull in breeding season is a cow with calves. On her path, she was going to come close enough to me that we might actually brush, so I didn't hesitate one moment.
If there is an Olympic event for backpedaling on an ST1300, I win.
I backed off the bridge, got turned around and motored back to the cheap seats to wait until all the big critters had moved farther away from the road so I could get the heck out of there.
Not far down the road I ran into this crowd of panhandling donkeys. They are a hoot!
They are wild, but very docile and methodical. This is their one gig and they work it like pros. They will pose for photos, are happy to be petted and prodded, and will supposedly climb right into your minivan for a snickers bar.
I pantomimed to them that I had no spare change or candy, and eased along on my way.
The Wildlife Loop dumps out onto Alt 16, which taken north becomes the Iron Mountain Road.
I stopped at a roadside place for lunch. One of the locals told me that in a couple of weeks the bike traffic on the road would average about two thousand bikes an hour. That would be quite a spectacle!
The Iron Mountain Road, and its famous "pigtail bridges", is a simply spectacular approach to Mount Rushmore. I have never seen or heard of another road like this anywhere.
The pigtail bridges are basically tightly spiraled paved wooden bridges. There was too much traffic for me to stop and take photos, but I really should have. Do not miss this road if you are anywhere nearby. Bring a good camera, and surrender a chunk of the day to getting good photos.
A fascinating feature of the highway is that there are a series of 3 tunnels in the rock, each of which is designed to perfectly frame a view of Mt. Rushmore. Spectacular.
This might be my favorite picture of the trip...
A minor rant about Rushmore... you can take those 2 pictures above for free, but anything closer must be taken from inside the "compound", which costs $8 to enter. There are lots great places to stop and snap a better photo from the road, but it is blanketed with "no stopping" signs, and there are NPS rangers hovering over the area ready to pounce immediately if anyone stops. This, to me, is a rip-off.
I took 40 east to 79 north towards Rapid City, noticing a fairly vigorous nest of spot thunderstorms popping up ahead of me. Of course I knew that I was the golden child, and thus protected from such petty earthly concerns as rain. After all, I had been on the road for nearly four weeks and had traveled over 6,000 miles without having gotten rained on. Certainly it would not happen *now*.
The road gods begged to differ, and smote me with a mighty rain storm. I immediately covered the tank bag and all the spendy electronic farkles, but decided to ride on until I could find some cover before I put on the rain gear.
Before I could find any cover I was out of the brief storm. It was hot enough that being wet was a blessing.
I jumped on 44 east headed for the Badlands.
Much of Badlands National Park, the part most people see, has highway 240 running through it. But the western end of the park has a gravel roads (Sage Creek Rd. and SW Wall Rd) that are lightly traveled. I had called the park before the trip, to ask if they thought the road was the sort that was ok for motorcycles, and they assured me that it was.
That is how the plan evolved so that I would peel off of 44 at Scenic, and take the 25 miles of gravel to join up with 240 in the middle of the park.
But as I got to Scenic, I took another look at my tire, and wondered what 25 miles of gravel would do to it. I came close to abandoning this part of the plan but I figured, what the heck. If something went wrong I would deal with it. Who was in charge of this trip anyway, me or the tire?
The road was well maintained, and it was mostly a "good" gravel road. But there were periodic ridges of deeper, "evil" gravel that liked to sneak up and take a nip at you. I would ride, my speed slowly increasing for a couple of miles to 50 mph or so, when the evil gravel would give me a "Fruit of the Loom" moment, and I'd slow back down to about 25. Eventually that is where I stayed.
One odd side-effect of this trip is that I now have a burning desire to get an off road, maybe a dual-purpose bike. There are so many places that opens up. And I am sure that if I learned how to handle the gravel better, there are many places even the ST could go that I don't currently feel like tackling.
Pronghorn, a.k.a. Antelope, a.k.a. Speed Goats
LOTS of these guys, all over the place
It is difficult to find the right adjectives to capture the haunting beauty of the badlands. It is at once enticing and forbidding. The spectacular colors and shapes seem to tempt you to wander in for a more intimate look, but you could almost imagine that fewer people come out than go in. If someone made this place up you'd tell them to back off the alkaloids.
I took several pictures, but they just didn't do it justice so I left most of them out. If anyone wants to see some good photos of the area, check out
this guys photos of the Badlands and Black Hills.
Headed to Interior
I rode south out of the park into flat desolation, and stopped at the tiny burg of Interior. Which doesn't look like much more than a gas station.
I gassed up and bought some Gatorade. I asked the guy operating the station if he minded if I hung out and enjoyed the AC for a few minutes while I drank my Gatorade. No problem.
He methodically sharpened a large hunting knife. I had the impression he had been at it for hours. Music played in the background, which is good because that is all that kept the theme from "Deliverance" out of my head.
I went into the bathroom to fill my water bladder from a sink that looked like it had last been cleaned during a Democratic administration. And maybe not Clinton's.
It was 6:30 PM mountain time, around two hours before sunset. I had been on the road over 9 hours covering 314 miles, much of which was the best the Black Hills and badlands had to offer.
There had been many stops for photos, a leisurely lunch, many slow twisty bits, lots of enjoyment. And about 25 miles of vaguely disturbing gravel.
And the last few hours had been very hot.
All in all, a full day. Home was about 900 road miles away. The plan was to head south, sleep tonight at the first motel I could find, and take 2 more days to get home.
So.
Hmmm.
Crunch time.
I took a mental and physical inventory, and decided I felt pretty good. Fresh - not used up. One voice kept telling me that this is not the way to go for a 1000 mile day. That covering another 700 miles in the next 15 hours was not a practical goal after the day I had just had.
Of course, that is what I decided to do. I mounted up and rode south.
As soon as the decision was made it was like I had taken a syringe full of adrenaline. Everything took on a new immediacy and intensity.
I committed to myself that I would keep close tabs on my condition, and not try to ride through fatigue or carry on if I felt my attention drop off.
My only real worry was that I get at least to I-80 at Grand Island Nebraska, because after that most of the trip would be interstate, where motels should be readily available in case I hit the wall.
I screwed up almost right away.
My plan was to head south towards Martin on Hisle Road from 44 just west of Wanblee, to join up with 73 south. But when I got to Hisle road I was unpleasantly surprised to find it was gravel.
I was immediately worried about my rear tire and thought about turning around and finding a paved route. For some dumb reason I thought that Hisle road was only 5 miles or so long, and didn't check the map to confirm. Go for it, I thought.
Oops. It was 30 miles, with plenty of evil gravel. It took a great deal of concentration and effort to keep it in a good line. It basically sucked.
Hisle road took me near places called "Plenty Bears" and "Bad Wound", and through "Black Eyes". In my fear of the gravel, I hoped the last two were not prophetic.
Finally back on the blacktop, just south of Martin I crossed into Nebraska onto Highway 61, rode through Merriman and across the narrow but stunningly beautiful Niobrara River valley.
Though there was still plenty of light left, the western sky to my right darkened ominously, lightning flashing. This was no spot thunderstorm, it was one of those giant storms that just take over and settle in.
61 gently snaked along. As it wound left and right, I alternated between being sure I was riding straight into the storm, and grasping at faint hope that I might slip by on the eastern edge of it. It did not look like a casual storm. I did not look forward to riding in through it, in the dark, on a desolate, lonesome road on which I had yet to see an oncoming car.
Between the Niobrara and Highway 2, nothing really interrupts the desolation of highway 61. It rolls and undulates, and would be monotonous but for its stark beauty. Boredom was also held in check by the storm, which obliterated the setting sun and cast a weird light over the dusk.
It was thrilling, in a nerve wracking sort of way. This felt like adventure!
Just as I was enjoying this thrill, I got a brand new one.
Approximately halfway between Merriman and Hyannis, 30 miles from anything in any direction, my SmartTire display lit up and alerted me to a low pressure condition in my rear tire, about 7lbs below what it should be.
Holy crap.
I pulled over and shut 'er down, and was rewarded with a palpable silence, except for periodic rumbling thunder from the west. I looked at the tire, and could not find anything wrong with it.
It was intensely, spookily lonely out there. I don't think I had seen a car since I got on the road.
I figured this might turn in to my chance to try out the camping gear. I was positive that the storm was about to stop screwing around and move over me. It was a bit of a pucker moment.
I assumed I would have acceptable handling at least until the tire got down to 20 lbs or so, and I didn't know how slow a leak I might be dealing with. I knew I might be racing time here, so I decided to get rolling again and try to forget about leaving 61 to take 2 to Grand Island, and get myself straight south to I-80 at Ogallala. My options would increase greatly once I got to the interstate. If the tire got much lower, I would reevaluate things.
So I jumped back on, and boogied south into the growing darkness, sunset having come and gone, and the storm off to the west showing no slacking in intensity. I checked the tire pressure on the SmartTire every minute or so.
Oddly, the pressure never changed, stabilized at 7 or 8 lbs low. I kept checking, and it kept staying there. I had no idea what was going on, but I decided to return to my original plan of taking 2 east at Hyannis, and keep a careful eye on things.
I rolled into Hyannis at about 9:20. There were two closed gas stations. I had burned about half a tank. There were lots of little towns along highway 2, but for all I knew their stations would be closed too. There ain't much happening in this part of the country, not even on a Saturday night.
Just outside of town I was thrilled to find an open gas station. I gassed up, aired up that rear tire (it never again showed any loss!), and had a RockStar drink. I wasn't feeling fuzzy, but I wanted to be sure I stayed alert.
Just to add to the eerie factor, my turning east on 2 coincided with the rise of the nearly full moon in the eastern sky.
The storm still raged to the west, now directly behind me. In my mirrors I'd see black sky with flashes of lightning, but ahead of me to the east was a clear starry night sky, punctuated by a huge red moon on the horizon as if perched on the end of Highway 2.
If this was a movie you would have thought the director was being a little over the top with his visuals.
I rode on into the moon and the night, little towns rolling past.
Highway 2 parallels a quite busy set of railroad tracks. I learned something I had never previously known: you can sometimes get trains to dim their headlights for you. This is good to know.
220 miles later, At Grand Island I started to maybe feel a little fuzzy. I decided to stop at a Perkins for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie, and see how I felt. I had crossed into the Central time zone. It was 2:20 am.
I parked near the front, set my helmet on the ground next to the bike, and went in - hoping for a quick turnaround. How long should a Perkins need to get you a cup of coffee and a piece of pie? According to my GPS, 40 minutes. This is NOT an Iron Butt restaurant.
And when I left I found that the sprinklers had turned on, soaking everything parked near them, including the inside of my helmet (the flip-front had been up) and the seats of any cars that had their windows rolled down. Grrr...
I don't know if it was the coffee, my irritation at the lousy service, or the, uh, "refreshing" sensation of pulling on a wet helmet, but I felt fresh and spunky again. I hit I-80 east.
The miles rolled by. The full moon had paled to white and was high above in the clear night sky, leaving a moon-shadow of my bike on the asphalt to keep me company as I motored on.
On highway 2 between Lincoln and Nebraska City, I noticed the first blush of light in the eastern sky. It felt so odd to have ridden straight through the night, from dusk to dawn. I had never done that before.
Shortly thereafter, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a large whitetail buck, with huge antlers, standing behind a bush at the edge of the road. There was no way to see him ahead of time. If he had stepped into the road, I would have had few options.
I still felt fine, heading south on I-29 about 50 miles north of St. Joseph as the sun rose.
I started to get sleepy as I cleared St. Joseph, and decided to stop at the first rest area I saw and nap for a bit.
Problem is, I didn't find any rest areas, and soon I was in Kansas City. I got onto I-70 east, but by the time I got to Grain Valley a little after 8AM I know I couldn't wait any longer. I pulled into a gas station, parked, and checked into the Iron Butt Motel.
Which means I rolled to a stop, leaned back, closed my eyes and slept on the bike.
I awoke feeling truly refreshed, gassed up the bike, grabbed a RockStar, and got back on I-70. I hadn't paid close attention to when I arrived and left, but was surprised to see that I had not been there long. I figured my nap had to have been less than half an hour.
I later thought to check my GPS log, and learned that the bike had been stopped for 18 minutes and 47 seconds before I rolled to the gas pump. Now THAT's a power nap.
Truth is, I honestly felt good. So good I decided to take the twistier route back home, rather than a shorter, straighter route. I took the Highway 179 exit, and pulled into a gas station at 10:02 AM. I figured this for my 24 hour mark, because I had left my motel in Spearfish at around 9:10 AM Mountain time.
So, including a leisurely lunch, 55 miles of semi-evil gravel, a 40 minute coffee/pie debacle, 9 hours of recreational twisties exploration and photo safari, and an 18 minute nap, I had gone 1,071 miles in 24 hours. I did it!
About then I called Jane and said I would be home soon. She was completely taken by surprise.
Around 12:30 the ST crunched gravel in my driveway.
It had been a 7,324 mile trip in 26 days (really only 19 riding days), ending with a 26 hour 1,194 mile adventure.
No tickets, no get-offs, maybe 10 minutes of rain, no mechanical problems (except for a mysterious one-time loss of little tire pressure). How could this be? You can't dream a better vacation than this. I am still pumped.
Thanks all for reading this - I hope you enjoyed it as I have so much enjoyed reading of other sport touring adventures.
The REAL final day, 1,194 miles - 7,324 total.
Peace out.
Regards,
Steve Jones, St. Louis, MO
STOC 3920, '03 ST1300 ABS, '83 VF750F Interceptor