Prologue

"Black leather everywhere . . . must be August." Aside from maybe an Angelino S&M conference, that sign would look out of place anywhere else in the world. But hanging above the first freeway exit into Sturgis, South Dakota, it looks right at home. Never mind the fact that I damn near ran off the freeway from laughing so hard. Two days prior, I don't think I would have found it quite as funny, but after 700 miles in 100+ degree heat, across some of the most barren, God-forsaken wastes that the Midwest and Plains states of Iowa and South Dakota had to offer, it was a regular laugh-riot!

I set out for Sturgis, Wednesday morning, after getting up and making sure that I had absolutely everything (that I could remember) packed up and ready to go. It goes without saying that I would soon discover I had forgotten nearly everything of import . . . but we'll get to that later. With the misguided notion that I had what I needed, and the knowledge that my doggy was safely tucked away at the boarding kennel, I fired up my bike and got ready to head out to a place I'd never been, with people I'd never met and staying somewhere that had not yet been decided.

The Interstate Begins

There was about an hour ride ahead of me before I was to hit the interstate; mostly on backcountry road, through small towns that time most decidedly forgot. The first such town along my route is burg of a few hundred folks called, Burlington Junction, which in my mind, serves the sole purpose of being a 25 mph speed bump along an otherwise 60mph route. But on this occasion, I happened to notice a couple of bikers rolled out on bed-mats next to their shining steeds, pulled over next to a closed-down gas-station, sleeping in at 8:00am on a Wednesday morning. That right there was when I knew I was in for something special! I mean, c'mon . . . how many things in life are worth risking getting lynched by a mob of angry townies who, "Don't like your kind 'round here?"

The rest of the ride along my pre-interstate route was uneventful, or rather, business as usual. What Rt. 146 lacks in metropolitan delights, it more than makes up for in hills, twisties, and a general lack of radar-wielding constabulary. My biggest problem, as ever, along the route is trying to figure out which cagers are waving at me, and which are not. It's odd, but folks in cars in this area are every bit is likely to wave at you when you're out on your ride as other folks on bikes. And being that I love to let the world know how much fun I'm having while enjoying the sport of motorcycling, I try to wave back at anyone and everyone who waves at me. It's just a lot more difficult to see the driver of a four-wheeler than it is to see a rider on a cycle.

The gently rolling ride along Rt. 146 eventually came to an end at the start of I-29 in Rockport, Missouri. I figured I'd gas up there, get a smoke and a stretch and get my mind right before hitting the superslab for the next couple days. From my vantagepoint at the Texaco station, I couldn't actually see much of the interstate, but I could swear I heard the constant rumble of v-twins going by. I had no idea what awaited me.

With the necessities out of the way, and my mindset adjusted for the strenuously boring prospect of hours on the interstate, I mounted up my trusty Roadie and headed for the on-ramp; destined to meet another Roadie rider on the north end of Omaha, Nebraska. His name was Jim and I knew him from the Road Star forum, and though he lives about 45 minutes south of me in St. Joseph, Missouri, I'd never actually met him face to face. I kinda wondered about what sort of cat he'd turn out to be. I wasn't worried or anything, but I hoped we'd get along alright, since we'd be hanging out for the next several days across some fairly arduous riding conditions.

But those thoughts were put out of my mind the moment my front wheel hit the interstate since for the visible length of interstate, all I could see was bike after beautiful bike. Man, what a rush! Of course, most of the bikes I saw were heading south, away from Sturgis. Although I was curious to know how many folks were headed in my direction, I opted to imagine, rather than haul heiney and actually see for myself. (That attitude would soon be shown the door once I hooked up with the Jim, a.k.a. "The Batman.")

Being the gregarious and gracious rider that I am (and humble too! ), I attempted to wave at each and every rider that passed me by, yet I noticed that only a disturbing few waved back. What was the deal?! Did everyone who went to Sturgis automatically come back a jaded bastard? What happened to those folks out there? And more importantly, would this happen to me?! Man, I wasn't sure I wanted to be a part of any of this if this is how people were going to be. It really bothered me . . . for about a half-hour, when my left arm finally gave out from trying to wave at everyone I passed.

Point of context: normally, when you pass another rider out on the highway, it's a semi-special occasion. When compared the other types of traffic one finds on the road, motorcycles are relatively uncommon. Combine that with the fact that most folks who ride bikes do so zealously, well it just stands to reason that when one such illusive maniac passes another on the road, they're going to acknowledge each other in a friendly manner. Hence the low-slung, down-and-to-the-side, left handed wave that I know some of you have practiced in front of a mirror at one point or another.

But out on I-29, on the Haaj to the Mecca of motorcycling, I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised to see cagers waving at on another, as they were the rare breeds, interspersed amongst the dense smattering of one-up, chrome-plated, rumblers that had take over the interstate-system for the week. It was truly an impressive sight to behold!

Service with a Smile

I rode along the interstate for about a half-hour, until I hit the turn-off for Nebraska City, NE. I was a couple hundred miles past the 8,000-mile limit on my odometer and needed to get a servicing done before I made any significant progress toward Sturgis. Like so many people I know, I'm very neurotic when it comes to the care of my bike, and especially neurotic when it comes to people I let take care of it for me. Out of all the dealers in Missouri I've dealt with, none of them left me with that, "Come back any time!" feeling that I try to look for in a dealership. So needless to say, each service has been an opportunity to go to another dealer, and this time was no exception.

A friend of mine, an engineer at Kawasaki's Small-Engines plant had recently purchased a bike from a shop in Lincoln, Nebraska. Now, because he's an employee of Kawasaki, he was able to buy a bike at dealer cost, but the rules of the deal stated that he needed to purchase the bike through a dealer. Needless to say, that right there is a perfect opportunity for the dishing out of attitude . . . having to give out a bike to some relative stranger at little to no profit; a bad attitude could easily have been expected. But, refreshingly enough, my buddy had nothing but good things to say about these folks, so I thought I'd give them a try. And after calling them a few days prior to departing for my trip and having them tell me they could bring it to them in the morning and have it back to me right after lunch, I was feeling pretty enthusiastic myself.

Well, aside from getting lost in the outskirts of Lincoln, the experience was an uplifting one that finally shook me of the notion that the only good metric shops where several hundred miles away. As promised, these good folks rolled my scooter into the shop bay shortly after I dropped the keys into the hands of the friendly Service Manager.

I proceeded to skulk about their shop for the next several hours, looking over every inch of every Yamaha, Kawasaki, Suzuki, and BMW that they had sitting on the showroom floor. At one point, while I was eyeing the enigmatic Beemer R1200C, the sales guy who sold my friend his ZR-7, came by and struck up a conversation. I quickly gave him the impression that I wasn't there to buy a new bike, but he was more than happy to hang around and shoot the breeze with me anyway. The whole experience left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling that I had never gotten at a shop anywhere near my abode and helped keep my entire day on the up-stroke. I'll definitely be going back there again, when the need arises!

My stay at the shop lasted 'til slightly after one o'clock that afternoon, when they called me on my cell phone to tell me my bike was done. What they didn't know was that I was sitting over by their accessory racks when the called! I paid them a fairly reasonable amount and headed out the door.

With my 8,000-mile service out of the way, I set to get back on the road and get to Omaha to meet Jim and his wife, but in typical Deeter fashion, I needed to make one more stop before I could proceed.

End Part I