A short story. |
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| The biker was a big
dude, weighing in at around 250 pounds and standing around six
foot three. His grey, ZZ Top style beard was thick and long and
kind of parted in the middle, more or less forming two beards
growing down each side of his massive chest (if you can picture
what I mean). A dark blue baseball style cap sat a tad too far
back on his wide forehead and had something about Texas, the
Lone Star State embossed in white print above the peak. Pushing
a large, out stretched hand toward me, Franklin, as he
introduced himself as, had effectively blocked off my line of
vision with the woman on the chopper. And that was without even
trying!
Lowering my camera and shaking Franklin’s hand without having my right arm dislocated was something of a risk I guess. Nevertheless, I introduced myself and clarified the following. ‘Yes, I was from New Zealand,’ and ‘hadn’t bought my shirt off E-bay, or anything of that nature.’ Franklin was as friendly as he was vast in stature and showed a keen interest in what might bring a New Zealander all the way to Sturgis. And not only that, but riding his own motorcycle too! Taking the time to explain that it was not so unusual, at least not any more, I went on to add that when we under-took our initial Sturgis adventure way back in 1995, it was quite an exclusive club with only a minimum of New Zealand riders having made the journey. But now-a-days, there were many Kiwi Bikers who had made it to Sturgis and some, like us, had undertaken several trips over the years. ‘Where are your buddies at?’ drawled Franklin. Realising I had been speaking a little too fast for the slow talking Texan, I made a conscious attempt to curb the speed at which the words flowed from my mouth. ‘They’re in Sturgis this morning. My girlfriend is having a Samson exhaust system fitted to her Night Train and I intend on catching up with her and the others as soon as my bike is ready to go.’ ‘Okay Brian. Here is my card. I’m staying at Tilford ( between Rapid City and Sturgis) If you or your buddies want a cold beer, give me a call and you’ll all be welcome to drop by anytime.’ Anytime did in fact mean anytime. Franklin was typical of many US bikers I’d met over the years. Friendly, generous and possessing an un-dying willingness to help out. Thanking him for the hospitable offer, I made my way over to where the serviceman had parked my bike - job complete. Turning Franklin’s business card over to check out his details, I saw that he was an executive for an electronics company down in Dallas. Temporarily slipping his card into the back pocket of my jeans, my gaze shifted to the yellow and blue chopper parked adjacent to my Softail. Disappointingly, there was no sign of the rider. Ah well, it happens. Grabbing the job sheet hanging from my handlebars, I ambled over to the ‘Pay Here’ kiosk. The service window was closed. However, there were two people inside busy counting money, but no sign of the young, dark haired girl I ‘d seen when I first arrived. After standing there for a while unnoticed, I was about to give a gentle tap on the window when a middle aged woman wearing square framed glasses and a pleasant smile glanced up and came over. Sliding the glass back, she greeted me with ‘Yes sir, how can I help?’ Handing her the job sheet, I closely followed with my credit card and signature. The whole process was over in a moment and not much more than ten minutes later, the hot, dry, South Dakota wind was tugging at my clothing as I jumped onto the I-90 and headed for Sturgis. Most of the bikers staying in the area had already left for Sturgis, making the interstate bike traffic relatively light. Slipping into the fast lane, I barely noticed the blue Road King I passed with two people on board. A little over a mile later, the same motorcycle came up fast on the outside, with the rider easing back on the throttle once he’d drawn level with me. Looking over, I was greeted by the sight of two very familiar faces wearing rather wide grins. Bob and Pam, our Australian friends who were staying in the same motel as us had recognised me when I whipped past them, although I’d failed to recognise them on the radar. Later, we were to decide by consensus that Pam’s brand new helmet was the overriding factor in my failure to notice two people I’d known for a good number of years. Pam had replaced her heavy, full face head protector with a much more comfortable, lightweight, open face helmet that was more appropriate for summer riding conditions in the USA. With a lot of grinning and nodding of heads, we settled down and continued cruising west until exit 32 emerged on our right. Rolling into Sturgis late in the morning was quite a different experience to arriving there at around 7:30am, our usual routine. Motorcycle traffic was backed up along Junction Avenue slowing everything to a crawl. The situation gave me ample time to step off my bike at a set of traffic lights and remove my light weight, summer riding jacket. Rolling the garment up like a sausage, I pushed it into the space between my handlebars and wind screen, where it remained for the rest of the day. Giving Bob and Pam a brief run down on what was happening, I explained that Sandy was at the Sampson tent on Lazelle Street and that she should be easy enough to find. Bob called out, ‘Which side of the road?’ ‘Unfortunately, the left hand side,’ I replied. ‘We’ll need to cross against the traffic. Go for the first gap we see I suppose.’ Bloody brilliant, deep thinking philosopher that I am! Combine the persistent roar of motorcycle engines, the almost over powering smell of exhaust fumes and the intense heat waves shimmering off the hot tarmac and you have a mix that some folk might find a tad intimidating, especially if they were on their first visit to Sturgis. In fact, I’m happy to admit, I was almost relieved to see the larger than life ‘Samson’ sign as we chugged along Lazelle Street, unable to get beyond second gear due to the volume of bike traffic. A gap appeared at just the right moment and with relative ease, we were able to swing across the east bound lane and find an appropriate parking place directly outside a bar where Sandy, along with our friends, Dave and Mary were seated on a well shaded veranda.
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Climbing from my bike, I couldn’t help but notice the less than enthusiastic expression on Sandy’s face. She was unhappy and it clearly showed. Casting a glance around the immediate vicinity, I was unable to spot her bike, which I expected to see sitting there complete with a brand new exhaust system. Bob parked his Road King and he, Pam and I stepped beneath the welcoming shade of the veranda roof, halting at the table where the others were seated. ‘What’s up?’ I asked Sandy. ‘Where’s your bike?’ ‘Over there.’ she replied, jerking a thumb towards a cluster of bikes parked on a side street. Looking over, I couldn’t see any black pipes. ‘What time are they going to get around to fitting your pipes?’ I asked. ‘They’re not.’ came the terse reply. ‘They don’t have a set for my bike!’ ‘They don’t? What are you saying?’ I asked. ‘Turns out they don’t have any pipes to fit my Night Train, apart from the display set that are all scratched up and I don’t want them on my bike.’ No-one could blame her for that. The sales guy had obviously screwed up the previous day by assuming he had stock on hand. There was not a lot we could do about that. Bluntly speaking, Sandy was merely one dissatisfied customer amidst a long line of happy customers, with our mate Dave falling into the latter category. He’d purchased a set of Samson pipes for a 2009 Ultra he’d ordered before leaving New Zealand. His new bike was due to arrive around mid November and by buying his pipes in the USA, he would save a considerable sum of money. Samson had driven in an eighteen wheeler full of exhaust systems for various models of bikes and already, two thirds of the entire load had been sold. One unhappy customer wasn’t going to mean a great deal to them, I’m sure. As it transpired, Sandy was eventually able to purchase the pipes she wanted from an after market shop in Los Angeles and at a cheaper rate too! So it all worked out in the finish. My way of dealing with the situation was to buy a cold beer. Walking into the air conditioned bar, I ordered a Miller Lite, while at the same time hauling off my hot, sweaty T-shirt and swapping it for a clean, light weight singlet. Stepping back out onto the veranda, I was just in time to see the Samson guy walk into view, then disappear again, but not before he was targeted with a malicious stare. I knew that look well, having been targeted a number of times myself over the years! After hanging out for a while with the rest of the group and drinking half my beer, I decided to take up my camera and wander out onto Lazelle Street. There wasn’t much point in letting potential photo opportunities slip away and yes, there were plenty out there. Fifteen minutes later, the heat drove me back beneath the protection of the veranda roof. Flopping into a plastic chair and scooping up my half full beer can appeared to motivate the others into moving. ‘Where’re yo’all goin’?’ I asked, in a half arsed attempt to sound like a southerner. ‘We're going over to Main Street.’ they said. ‘S’pose I might as well tag along.’ Dragging myself out of the chair and leaving what was left of my beer, I followed the group back out into the unrelenting sunlight. Cutting down a short lateral street that connected Lazelle and Main, we emerged not too far from the Police Station. As usual, the front lawn was covered with bikers just sitting around and watching what was happening. The station was constructed on a piece of high ground that gave great views of a four way intersection out front and I well recalled sitting up there three years earlier and managing to snap some fairly reasonable photographs. The Sturgis cops didn’t seem to mind people sitting all over their front lawn and so long as everyone stays respectful, I’m sure we’ll be able to sit up there again when we next visit Sturgis. Before long, we were back in the throng with the soul melting daytime temperature embellished by the heat bouncing off motorcycle engines and exhaust pipes. While the others were looking for a place to eat, I decided that I needed a new pair of sunglasses and paid way too much for a pair of slick looking ‘Icicles Eyewear’ off a Main Street vendor. As usual, they saw me coming and I happily walked off with an expensive pair of sun glasses that might have looked good, but were of no practical use at all to a motorcyclist! Sucker! Re-connecting with the others, we ambled along as one group, while at the same time, keeping a look out for a place to eat that wasn’t wall to wall with customers. It was a blessing indeed to pass a stall where a young lady, clearly dressed to combat the heat, was busy giving away plastic bottles of iced water. We gratefully accepted the cold liquid, which we finished quickly, tossing the empties into a nearby garbage can. Keeping a group together whilst moving through a large mass of people is near on impossible and it was only a short while before I grew intolerant and broke away on my own in search of more photo’s. ‘Text me when you find a place to eat.’ I tossed over my shoulder, before cutting across the street and walking in the opposite direction. Working my way along Main Street one block at a time was certainly interesting enough and relatively easy when travelling alone. Pausing at the intersections provided the best photo opportunities and I continued with that practice until I reached the junction of 1st and Main. Making a left allowed me to cut back onto Lazelle Street where I stopped by a vendor selling cheaply made, half helmets out of a tent for $15 a piece. Those super lightweight helmets fell short of all the approved safety standards, but were so comfortable to wear, I managed to ride many miles in the USA with that thing on my head, hardly aware it was there. In fact, there was one instance in Idaho where I made to walk into a roadside diner still wearing it! The little hat was so damn light, I’d forgotten it was on my head! Needless to say, that small oversight drew a fair amount of stick from the others.
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