A Memorable Ride

To celebrate my 60th birthday, I told my wife I wanted to ride my 2007 Harley-Davidson Ultra Classic to Sturgis, South Dakota, for the Black Hills Rally. It was just something that needed doing—it was on my bucket list.

After several days of making nice and promising to be safe, she finally—but grudgingly—relented, stating that while I may have a death wish for attempting such a foolish ride, she would prefer to fly to Rapid City.

Yes!

With the hard part behind me, I set about letting my three brothers know so we could plan one helluva family reunion. We all ride. Always have. Our father raised us that way. His first ride was a 1947 H-D knucklehead complete with tank shift and suicide clutch. My brothers and I began riding when I bought a mini-bike with the money I earned from mowing lawns and delivering papers. The unfortunate thing finally gave up the ghost and required that our father invest in something a little more durable. Our love affair with motorcycles had begun, and we have been riding ever since.

But we have never ridden together as a family. So, while I planned the trip to Sturgis, I had a secondary goal: get all of us together for a family ride on our way to the Black Hills. My father lived in the Bootheel area of Missouri. I live in Tampa and my brothers in Illinois and Mississippi. Arranging the meeting posed some logistical problems, but we had a year to figure it out and surprise our dad.

As the date approached, plans firmed up, and we had the groundwork for our rendezvous in Missouri. My father—a lifelong rider of motorcycles—attained his 80th year that February. Still working as a long-haul trucker back then, spare time to ride was at a premium, but he still owned a Sportster and rode whenever he got the chance.

Life has a knack of getting in the way of doing the things we wish we could. Because of this, the five of us have not been together since 1974. Unbelievable, sure, but as I said, life sometimes gets in the way. I determined to change that. So, as the departure date drew near, I increased the pressure on my brothers to make the journey and meet at our dad’s home on the first Saturday of August. The stars aligned, the fates smiled on us, and on Saturday the four of us pulled into the driveway presenting quite a sight to our dear old dad. It took a long time for him to lose the smile.

We couldn’t stay long—we had a long way to ride before stopping for the night. So, after catching up on news and a quick meal, it was time to leave. I didn’t have to urge our dad to ride along (don’t think I could have stopped him), and he led the procession through the side streets and out to the state highway. As he peeled off to return home, leaving us to point our headlights west, we all waved and watched until he disappeared up the off-ramp.

The trip to South Dakota was not without its own thrills and challenges. We had an exciting time driving through Kansas City traffic at night, and anxious stretches of highway with few gas stations, but after three days we arrived at our rented cabin in Custer, a cozy little town 40 miles southwest of Rapid City.

This being my first time to the Sturgis rally, I depended on my younger brother to be our guide, a task at which he was more than capable. With our base in Custer, every rally venue required that we ride past the Crazy Horse Memorial and Mount Rushmore. The magnitude of the former and solemnity of the latter both amazed and humbled me. In the six days we were there, we visited the usual sights: Deadwood, Spearfish Canyon, Custer State Park, the Badlands, and on one long day, Devil’s Tower across the border in Wyoming. We spent one day going to Sturgis to get a feel for the flavor of the rally firsthand.

I have been to several rallies in my time—Daytona (both Bike Week and Biketoberfest), Laconia (loved the Mount Washington ride), the Honda Hoot in Knoxville (back when I rode a VTX 1800C), several regional rallies in Florida, etc.—but there was something special about the Black Hills Rally. Perhaps it was the geographic location with its spectacular scenery, or maybe it was how the rally seemed incorporated into nearly every town and city in western South Dakota. From Custer and Hill City, Wall to Rapid City, not to mention Deadwood and Spearfish, rally fever seemed to infect the entire region. Everywhere we went, we saw evidence of this. There were banners and billboards, vendors and photographers along scenic byways, and a general feeling of openness and warmth from the local population, even though I am sure they were happy when the crowds abated.

When at last we were packed and ready to leave for the long ride home, I was a little saddened. I might never return and wondered if I missed anything in the six days and over one thousand miles of riding. I had my stash of new tee shirts, my “I Rode Mine” patch on my vest and HOG Rally pin for my denim jacket, and two digital cards full of photographic memories of the trip. Plus, I spent more time in a week with my two brothers than I had in many years. No, I had not missed a thing.

It was time to go. I escorted my wife to the Rapid City airport, once more swore to be safe, and waited as she went through security and toward the gate for her flight home. With that duty done, I turned southeast and twisted the throttle. Four days later I arrived, a little sore and road weary, safe at home in Tampa. I checked my odometer and noted with some satisfaction I had logged over 5,000 miles. It was time for another mileage patch.

I brought back many memories of the trip which I am sure most attendees did: the monuments, breathtaking scenery, the camaraderie of fellow bikers, and sights and sounds of the rally. But the one memory that stands out in my mind above the rest—not Rushmore, not Devil's Tower, not even the Full Throttle Saloon—was the look on my father's face as we headed out on our group ride. That single event will remain an unforgettable, fond memory for the rest of my life. What will last longer than all the souvenirs from the Black Hills Rally is seeing the look on my dad's face and the light in his aging eyes at having the chance to reunite with his sons for one more ride.

I don’t need a cheap tee shirt or patch to remind me of that.