It’d been quite some time since I’d eaten and my stomach was unashamedly reminding me of that fact. Stopping at a food caravan, I purchased an egg burger and coke before searching about for a shady spot to shelter from the sun. Crouching beneath the leafy shade of a nearby tree to eat and drink, I watched a woman almost tip off her Sportster while executing a U turn and a biker who found himself on the receiving end of a ‘telling off’ from a member of the Sons of Silence MC. I didn’t see what the guy did wrong, but assume some incident occurred while they were riding up Lazelle Street. Everyone does something irresponsible eventually, just be careful who you annoy in the process I guess. With my burger and coke almost done, a text arrived  saying, ‘we b at da loud american’  The message reminded me how much I despise that crappy bloody text lingo! The Loud American was on Main Street near 3^rd and as it happened, I was only a block and a half away.

The people I call friends were gathered around a table immediately inside the open doorway and there were unsavoury comments reaching my tender young ears even before I’d entered the building. Well, maybe not so young, but tender all the same!!

‘If arseholes could fly, this place would be an airport.’ was pretty much the best response I was able to contrive at the time.

Coca Cola cost four dollars a glass, prompting me to share Sandy’s drink while sitting there and watching what was happening out on the street. Eventually, the idea that we should take a ride out to the Full Throttle Saloon was tossed around and with Bob and Pam deciding to flag it and do something else (they’d been to the Full Throttle the day before) the rest of us left the Loud American and headed in the direction of our bikes. By some sort of ‘off the wall’ selection process, I was nominated as lead rider and that was fine by me, as I knew my way to the Full Throttle Saloon. The route was pretty simple and straight forward which was good for me, as anything complicated or difficult was not listed in my index right then.

Back amongst the chaos on Lazelle Street, we endured the stop, start, bike traffic all the way down to where it became HWY-34.

From there, the congestion thinned a little, presenting a still slow, but comfortable ride all the way out to Thunder Road, an area approximately three miles east of Sturgis.                  Highway Patrol Officers were dotted at regular intervals along the way, but from where I was looking, everyone was sensible and well behaved. Thunder Road is comprised of roughly six acres of paved vending space largely occupied by high end after market vendors. The whole scenario included a forty thousand square foot Thunderdome, with Thunder Road often referred to as the Custom Capital of Sturgis Bike Week.

Leading our little team out to the Full Throttle Saloon was a simple exercise. Taking them through the correct entrance was something quite different. Focussing on the same gateway I had ridden through on a previous visit, I pointed my bike in that direction, totally ignoring the young traffic warden beckoning me through what was in fact the correct way in. Too late in realising my error, I watched in my mirror as the others turned off the highway and into the correct entrance (likely wearing smirks on their grubby faces too!)

What the hell! It didn’t matter a great deal, as there was no out-going bike traffic at the time. After slipping through the exit as discreetly as the circumstances allowed, I followed the perimeter fence as it curved around to the right, until I’d all but reached the parking area out front of the Full Throttle. With less than fifty yards to travel, a dude in a red T-shirt ran across my front, frantically waving his arms in scissor like fashion above his head. Clearly, he was telling me, ‘No way are you coming through here buddy.’

‘Fuck it.’ I expressed out loud letting the throttle go, while at the same time gently squeezing the front brake. Then, for no apparent reason, someone farther back shouted at the guy, at which time he abruptly ceased his wild arm waving, dropping down to a way more friendly gesture from hip level that said, ‘ Come on through.’ 

Letting go of the brake, I rode on past, calling out an appreciative ‘Thanks pal’ before parking amidst the vast cluster of bikes gathered outside of what is claimed to be the ‘Worlds Largest Biker Bar.'

Lifting my camera by the neck strap, I headed for the large wooden doors that I knew would take me into where I’d find an ice cold beer and at the same time, be served by someone pleasant and pretty.

At the very moment I made to step through those doors, a lovely orange custom with pannier bags and a solo seat caught my eye. It wasn’t the first time I’d laid eyes on that bike and a moment later, the owner appeared. Theresa, who was tall, strikingly attractive and graced with the body of an athlete, looked quite stunning dressed in cut off denim shorts and a camouflage top displaying a perfectly flat tummy. Seeing as I’d spoken to her previously, albeit briefly, I figured she wouldn’t be adverse to having her photo taken alongside her bike. And indeed I was correct with that assumption. Openly friendly, with a magnetic personality and an ability to ride with the best of them briefly summarises this rider. Forty eight hours prior, I’d followed Theresa down the I-90. There was a lot of bike traffic out there that day and it was moving very fast – she could ride alright, there was no doubt about that.

Thanking Theresa for the photo opportunity, I bade her farewell and eagerly stepped into the bar for that cold beer I’d been looking forward to for so long. Sandy, Dave and Mary were already settled in, in fact they were so settled in it looked like they damn well lived there!

A derogatory comment was made about me riding in the ‘Exit’ rather than the ‘Entrance.' But I was well used to comments of that type. The 'rider up front' was often targeted in that fashion and experience had taught me that turning a deaf ear was usually  the best course of action. I’d have my time later.