travellingbennetts

Mobridge, South Dakota. We love North and South Dakota because their state initials are ND and SD. None of that is MI Mississippi, Michigan, Missouri, or Minnesota? nonsense. Day 66, and iPhone recovery euphoria still left a faint glow on the shiny forehead. Righto, let’s use that luck and tackle the Mo Bridge over the Missouri River – that’s right, Missouri’s initials are MO! It all makes sense now! It isn’t actually a river here, it is a huge dam, but never mind we crossed anyway. A sign on the other side pointed down a road saying Sitting Bull’s grave was there. A very famous person, and an Indian who had been given a half-decent name unlike poor old Sleepy Eye or Caught Tackle In Zipper back on the other side of the Mo River. Sleepy Eye was definitely a real person, Caught Tackle In Zipper is still the subject of historical research, and this chief may have originally been known as Lacks Stout Underwear.

Another superstar had a memorial there, Sakakawea. She is famous for guiding Lewis and Clark over the continent to the Pacific in 1805 after the Louisiana Purchase resulted in picking up the entire central west of the USA. She was a Shoshoni woman who was captured during the usual tribal bun fights. She was then purchased by a French fur trader who made her his wife. Somewhat surprisingly when Lewis and Clark appeared and asked if the Frenchman would take on the role of translator and guide, his condition was that Sakakawea must also come along, perhaps he’d paid good money for her and didn’t want to risk a capital loss. They weren’t terribly keen on that but had little choice, and it turned out to be the best back-down of the trip. Sakakawea’s abilities in guiding and getting the group around and over nasty terrain, tribes, and rivers had a huge impact on US history.

Through endless grasslands on the dirt roads, we got back onto the bitumen near Isabel. A brief deviation here to describe the Bennett riding process – we get up and have breakfast like 91.3% of the western world, and like 78.2% of the western world this includes a coffee. But an hour or so into the workday, like 63.8% of the western world, another coffee is required. Required is probably a bit soft a word to use, it’s more like “If I don’t get a coffee in the next 3 minutes someone is going to be strongly spoken to”. Strongly spoken to is probably a bit soft a phrase, it’s more like “I’ll strap someone to their effin’ motorcycle and set fire to it”. Anyway, on this occasion after an hour of riding we find a coffee in Isabel in a fantastic little café, and no-one needs to be spoken to.

Coffee’d, we were heading out the front and a young bloke working on a road gang approached us. Are those your bikes? Yes. Bit of fun discussion, then he says he used to ride. Used to? He’s like in his 30’s, who gives up riding at that age? He then described that he wore all the gear, all the time for his big trips on his Harley. But not around town. One day he was heading out to his mum’s place, 4 miles out of town, dressed in nothing but singlet and light jeans. Helmets are not required in South Dakota by the way. He’s doing highway speed, 70mph. A deer jumps out, landing across his handlebars and jamming said handlebars around so violently that it destroys his collarbone. He and the bike go down, luckily he didn’t hit his head. His description of sliding down the road and trying to roll around to ease the pain of bits being stripped off could have been narrated by Stephen King. He said that his abs were literally showing. He then showed us his shoulder, once heavily tattooed. A tiny bit of tattoo remained amongst horrendous scarring. A very, very long time in treatment. A lot of riders should meet that young bloke, the most incredible part was how positive and happy he was, but he ain’t ever getting back on a bike.

On to Faith, we stopped for lunch at a roadside van. We pulled pork while chatting to a nice bloke and his wife, on their Harley on the way back to Michigan from the Black Hills of South Dakota. Where are you heading, he asked. Hill City Cindy said, in the heart of the Black Hills. We were just there, but left because Sturgis is starting he says. Is it? I thought it was in June says I. Nuh, it formally starts on Saturday but as today is Thursday it is already in full swing. Hence why we are heading in precisely the opposite direction. No wonder the Hill City motel was a bit pricey says we. Oh well, we’re doing it. This theme was common for the rest of the trip into the motorcycling maw. We met people at servos who said yeah, they’d been regular attendees to Sturgis in the 80’s, maybe they’d go again, but they’d heard it was a bit out of control, so maybe not. We had no choice but to go through Sturgis. First hint was the huge Full Throttle venue with about a million RV’s and HD’s parked. OK, looks like fun. Then into Sturgis town. Here’s an assumption v reality mini break in the story. My assumption was that Sturgis was all about all motorcycles. We’d show up, and I’d be able to go to the Klim tent and whinge about visors breaking in Kansas, and Cindy would take her E2 helmet to the Schuberth tent and go full nuclear Karen regarding the pinlock lens not fitting, and they’d give her a free one and a t-shirt. Nuh, the reality of Sturgis is a Harley Davidson convention. Want useful motorcycling stuff like earplugs? Forget it. Want a tight pair of lady’s leather pants that have “this ass belongs to Geoffrey”? Every single shop has those.

We looked totally out of place in our Klim gear. Everyone else had a bandanna and tatts and sometimes that was all. The HD merch was ubiquitous, even livestock out in the paddocks had HD patches sewn onto their leather. Leather was manufactured into everything and anything. I’ve never worn leather, but apparently it’s not too bad for a slide down the road, and I admit I’ve never seen a cow with serious abrasion injuries after a motorcycle crash. But some of the leather outfits on sale had the rider for protection, not the other way around.

A wander up the street past shop after shop of merch, and a huge HD dealership bulging with stock and more merch, and we’d seen enough of the actual Sturgis. Time to press on to Hill City. Another assumption had been that Sturgis happened in Sturgis, nuh, any town or hamlet within a 50-mile radius is another Sturgis, and huge RV parks are strung out between the towns. Another assumption was that riders from all over the country get on the bike and do the miles to get there. Some do, but the preferred option seemed to be to load all the mate’s bikes onto a big trailer and drive out in the pick-up or the huge RV, set up camp, unload the bikes, and do mini day trips and park in prominent places for display.

Out to the Hill City chapter of Sturgis, our adventure bikes were oddities in the motel carpark, there is a tiny minority of anything that isn’t a cruiser. Some great service though, the hotel had cleaning stations with clean rags, water, and a basket for the dirty rags. As many of the Harleys hadn’t even done a mile to get there, and the rags were only used for show-room condition shining, the dirty rags basket was our go-to for getting the last 10,000km of filth off. Down into town, the whole main street was closed to anything except motorcycles, and early evening was the time to promenade up and down the street showing off one’s ride. Bars and restaurants were busy as one would expect, and the merch shops were doing OK. HD had a huge display and test ride pavilion next to the railway station, and it was also doing OK. Cindy’s estimate was that one out of every five Harleys was a trike, these seem to have filled a need for the older demographic to continue to ride and squeeze into the leather half-corset for one more Sturgis.

Days 67 and 68 were getting in amongst it. Firstly the Black Hills are famous for the granite mountains, which create some spectacular scenery and great riding. So of course we had to do Mt Rushmore, and off we went, wedged into an endless stream of Harleys. Still nearly managed to hit a deer, I assume it had been waiting a long time to cross and decided to go for it when a bike finally appeared travelling more than 3m from the bike in front. We then got a bit lost and ended up on the Needles Highway, which is just incredible. It got to lunchtime, and we solved the crowding problems by doing the unthinkable – going up a dirt road. We were the only ones at a beautiful little lake with clear water and a granite rock background, no Harley would even think of sullying the mirror shine with dust.

A minor issue occurred while heading out from a packed viewing point at the start of the Needles Highway. No parks available, so park the bike off the side in the dirt. Mandatory photos added to the huge power and water consuming data centre inventory, don’t worry I’ll delete some photos to compensate unless I forget or I can’t be bothered, and we went to head off. Cindy was parked rather precariously on the edge of the bitumen and I was worried about not hitting her front wheel, so I wasn’t fully focussed on my situation which was a very short run up off the dirt and a big step up onto the bitumen. People in their thousands were marching past, so when I took off with very little throttle and got the front wheel up the step before it stalled, they all witnessed my legs thrashing around in mid air trying to make contact with the ground. Down I went, as usual using my “dismount like a corpse” technique. It never fails to get people swarming in, who assume I am dead, and possibly have been for some time due to the floppiness of the dismount, then when I pop straight up their proximity to the scene forces them to help pick up the bike. Unfortunately, we broke the golden rule and forgot to take photos. If anyone reading this was there and like all human beings near anything videoed it, I’d appreciate a copy. Anyway, with the first ever USA bike drop out of the way, we could get on.

Our final experience was the Crazy Horse monument. This is just amazing, when Mt Rushmore was done someone decided that an Indian needed doing. And it has been doing since 1948, with many big mines not blasting and moving as much rock as happens here. We paid to get up a bit closer, but it can be seen from many miles way. The whole front of it will one day be a horse. Only the USA do things like this so big.

Day 69 we abandoned the Sturgis and continued south. Through Custer and into the Custer State Park, our National Parks card didn’t cover this so a $25 payment later we were in. There is a bit of leverage here from the name, this is nowhere near Little Bighorn which is in Montana, but I bet lots of people go there assuming the battlefield is on display. Chance of seeing bear were listed as 20%, but that didn’t factor our arrival which reduced it to -15%, i.e. all bear in the park were now incarcerated in the state penitentiary with no visitation rights. Chances of seeing anything other than Harleys weren’t much better, but we tried. Riding through the park, bison (or buffalo as many in the US call them, I stick with bison because they insist on incorrectly pronouncing emu as ee-moo rather than correctly as eem-you) were also on the potentials list. A long way in, we’d maybe seen a chipmunk but couldn’t be certain. Righto, we’re in a long line of Harleys, let’s split up and take different roads. I took the dirt, so knew there would be no interference or crowding when I came across an escapee bear in a bare-knuckle fight with a bison.

A pronghorn and some very pleasant riding later, by a miracle I popped out onto the loop road just as the other member rode up. She’d seen a bison. It was light years away in the distance but could be ticked off. I told of my pronghorn. Good enough to abandon this line of inquiry, so we continued south.

A refuel in Maverick Junction, and a unicorn was sighted. A German chap on a Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro parked next to Cindy’s Triumph Tiger 900 GT Pro. Another deviation into USA assumptions is warranted here. We assumed that the USA would be chokkas with adventure bikes. We listen to Adventure Rider Radio, and subscribe to ADVRider. These suggest that the USA is absolutely swarming with adventure motorcyclists. But we rarely see any, and we see way less than at home. Some BMW GSes, the odd KTM with a 21” front wheel, and occasional Teneres including T7s is about all, and unfortunately these are out on the road so the only contact is the left hand index and middle finger peace sign wave. So seeing an actual adventure bike parked right next to an actual adventure bike was cause for discussion. The German chap was into off-road, so immediately joined the pantheon of greats. We swapped US travel stories for a time, and then wrenched ourselves apart.

We pushed on, due south. Some obsessive behaviour trying to get a bike lined up with sunflowers picture, then we crossed into No.42 – Nebraska. We entered the Oglala grasslands, and there is a lot of grass in the Oglala grasslands. So much grass that anyone who has ever mown a lawn just freaks out. I haven’t mown in a while so could cope.

Down into Crawford, this town could have been in Australia – small population, a bit ratty in places, but super friendly people. We bought sandwiches and had them over in the park with a truck driver and his Blue Heeler. A perfect opportunity to segue into US dogs unknowingly set up by Duncan here, and he isn’t happy but will allow it, just this once. There are more Australian dogs in the US than in Australia. Bluey is very popular, and so Blue Heelers are quite common. But the big one is the Australian Shepherd. These are just everywhere, and as they don’t exist in Australia one can assume that the Americans came over and offered to swap their Chihuahuas with every single one of our Shepherds. Unfortunately, someone who adores tiny nasty yapping things was on the front desk that day and accepted.

Down into Gering to finish the day. A focus at this stage was my rapidly aging chain, under the new planned maintenance regime I’d organised it to be replaced in Colorado. Winston Churchill once said that as soon as one needs to adjust a motorcycle chain it is not the end, maybe not even the beginning of the end, but it is perhaps the end of the beginning. It was well past beginning of the end by now, more like 75% of the way to the end so adjustments were happening regularly. That didn’t delay the transition into Day 70, and a true Nebraska scenic highlight which we could see from the hotel, the Scotts Bluff National Monument. A monument in the US is not necessarily what we think of as a monument – a statue or building commemorating something. In the US a natural feature of historical importance can also be a monument. Scotts Bluff is a monument because it was a very important landmark on the Oregon trail, and it is an unmissable feature on a generally flat-ish landscape.

Up Scotts Bluff via an amazing road, once again a feature of the US is putting roads in simply so people can get a view. Most roads into the wilderness in Australia were due to agriculture or mining, rarely just to look at something, with maybe the odd exception such as Ayres Rock/Uluru. Anyway, back on the Bluff, we took in the views and threw derogatory comments at people attempting the Bluff by the ancient and embarrassingly out-dated technique of walking.

Pressing on, we went due south for a lunch in Kimball. The lunch was memorable because shade was only available out the back of the servo, and it was not somewhere you would see Martha Stewart dishing up. Gordon Ramsay perhaps, using his full vocab to describe the conditions customers were forced to eat under.

Then as per tradition we went due west, into our 43^rd state – Wyoming. It was not exciting riding as we hit Cheyenne, then turned due south into our first repeat state – Colorado, last entered June 4^th. More uninspiring riding down to Loveland, which only filled the expectation of being land. No Love was observed, except for a homeless bloke at the lights trying to put a bit of humour into his advertising.

The GPS decided we’d done enough uninspiring riding, it was bored out of its tiny brain, so put the magenta line right up the Rocky Mountains National Park. We had no choice but to follow the line, which went relentlessly up until we’d hit the top at about 11,200ft. Cool with spectacular views, we badly deserved it after a steamy Loveland.

Over the top, the views were spectacular, as were the humungous numbers of people in the slow-moving traffic. Getting a park at the lookouts was only possible on a motorcycle. Wait! We are on motorcycles! We sneak in and park somewhere highly illegal – not the disabled parks for the suspicious minds amongst you – and like on the E-ZPass toll roads back in the eastern US, we just sit back and wait for the fines to roll in, assuming they could be bothered, which they can’t. Down the hills (most I know in the US call the Rocky Mountains the hills, well I do and I’m one of the most people I know in the US) into the end of the day at Winter Park. A ski town, the fact highlighted by the number of ski shops, even the Maccas has snowboards on the menu next to hashbrowns. Out to the local diner about 3 feet away from the hotel, an occurrence that has been uncommon but not unknown in the US – invisibility. Either we are escorted to a table, or it is sit wherever you want. But then nothing. It’s like we are invisible. For a competition driven country like the US which developed a fast-food industry to serve huge numbers of people in very short periods of time this is always a bit odd. So in the diner we sat there. And sat there. No-one came to take our order. Sometimes we force the issue by using Australian customs and fronting the bar and asking for a drink and telling them we want the Brussel Sprouts, but in this case we decided to move on to somewhere that successfully served us.

Out of Winter Park on Day 71, the road headed back up into the hills and were just fabulous to ride. Then the challenge – avoid Denver like it’s got the plague. Which it does, the traffic plague was already infecting healthy riders out at North Central Evergreen, so off the highway and south. The GPS was struggling at this point, there are about 10 communities with Evergreen in the name, so we went old-fashioned and navigated by the stars. The fact that the Southern Cross is not visible in the northern hemisphere, and it was blinding and hot daylight didn’t slow us down too much. Apart from an incident with some escaped horses which cars in front of us refused to toot at and push off the road, we got onto the right road through Decker, which the GPS also refused to recognise as a place.

Down the hills into Colorado Springs, the final navigational challenge of the day to find our great friend Alden’s place. He had given me the precise GPS coordinates, and I’d figured out how to get these into the GPS, so we officially become the first people since Lewis and Clark (Wayne Lewis and Mick Clark who installed Alden’s shed) to get up the spaghetti of little dirt roads to his house without getting lost. We hadn’t seen Alden since the best trip we’ve ever done in Alaska in 2019, and catching up was a lot to do with coming to the US. Tragically Alden’s superstar rider and all-round funny and brilliant wife Jan passed away last year after a short illness, but seeing Alden was a real tonic after so much time on the road. Little time for rest yet though, we had both bikes booked in for a service and a chain and sprockets replacement at Colorado Springs Powersports. Dropped off, then we could rest.

Alden is originally from Cajun Country down in Louisiana, and although he spent a long career in the defence forces he never lost his cooking heritage. The first night was a beef roast and BBQ roasted veges. Off to a flyer, it was the best things we’d eaten since ever. I already enjoy a gumbo, but Alden’s chicken and sausage gumbo on the second night was way, way, way above next level.

It wasn’t only about eating, although we’d have been happy just with that. Pikes Peak is a very famous 14,200 ft mountain that looks down over Alden’s place, just one of Colorado’s 54 “fourteeners”, so we booked a time and up we went. Most famous for the 19.99km Pikes Peak International Hill Climb timed race up to the top, the car record is held by Romain Dumas in 7:57.148 from 2018, so an average of 151kmh. There wasn’t a single section of road I thought you could do those speeds, and some looked more like 20kmh, just ridiculously quick. The real interest is the terrain, or lack thereof. Once off the road you go a long way down before finding it again, and in 2012 a Mitsubishi EVO8 missed a corner and sailed hundreds of feet down the mountain, smashing into every rock on the way. The driver and co-pilot just stepped out to the amazement of themselves and everyone else. Very solid roll cage apparent in the car which is in the incredible Pikes Peak museum.

The bikes were ready after 2 days in the shop, so we went into town to collect them. Turned out they were ready-ish, with my fork seals repair “just finishing up”. An hour went by, every motorcycle in the dealership was checked out. The selection of Ducati t-shirts had been looked through. The small range of gloves were perused, some tried on. The accessories investigated, but still no Quad Lock bits suitable for solving Cindy’s problems. Eventually, “it’s just having the test ride”, and at way past closing time out it came, and off we went.

Just before turning up Alden’s driveway, it had become traditional to put the bikes into off-road mode. Cindy on the intercom: “I can’t change modes.” Me: “What do you mean?” Cindy: “I’m pushing the mode button, but nothing happens.” Me: “Oh they’ve stuffed up the software update, goddammit!” Anyway, there was eating and drinking to be done so let’s worry about that later.

More eating and catching up with another old Alaska mate, Mike, and a heap of Alden’s very funny and interesting friends at an evening in a garden in town with live music and yet more food and beverages. The Colorado Springs days had been a wonderful break from the motorcycling routine, but that routine called us back with its siren song of interstate roads and servo hot dogs avoidance. But the mode button failure on Cindy’s bike meant it had to go back to Colorado Springs Powersports. While mucking about with it, I noticed that the home button didn’t work either. This is on the other end of the handlebars, what on earth is going on?

Up on Day 74 as early as one can tolerate, i.e. 8am, and down the hill on Cindy’s bike into Colorado Springs Powersports. One rarely sees the depth and range of emotions that were on display as I pulled in. They first looked happy – here’s Duncan back, maybe he does want that Ducati t-shirt! Then the facial collapse – holy s#!t, Duncan’s back, we just did a service on their bikes, and he’s back on not his bike. Tension was palpable as I strode in. No mode or home button function. We all agreed it was weird but should be no worries after a re-boot. Plugged in, the expert was on the job. Reset, still nothing. Called US Triumph technical support. Disconnected the battery, let the bad electrons evaporate from the bike, reconnect and re-boot. Still nothing. Might be the switch blocks. Really, on both sides, and they were working when the bike was dropped off? I called Service legend Chris at Harrisonburg Triumph and explained what was happening. Have seen that once before, it was the switch blocks on that occasion. OK, it doesn’t stop the bike from starting and moving, we’ll just have to try and sort it out somewhere in the future. Back up to Alden’s place, we decided to spray contact cleaner into the switches, and disconnect the battery for the hour or two while we packed up. We only had to get to Denver after all, to catch up with cousin Jon and cousin-in-law Ange, so no rush. Everything ready, but still no modes or home button joy, well we’d just avoid dirt roads which are rare anyway.

Back up through Decker for a quick lunch, and thrusting north-east into Denver, we went up a GPS required road. Which suddenly turned to dirt. No mode, no dirt road was the mandate, so we turned around. Then the road to Denver, no worries, until it suddenly became non-bitumen, i.e. dirt. Righto, we either go a very long way around, or Cindy ignores the modes crisis and ploughs on. Ploughs on was the decision. A nice road, no dramas. Until it became insanely steep. Then Cindy comes on the intercom – “I can’t change down gears, I’m stuck in 3^rd, and I’m stalled on the hill” As a husband/man, I’m sure my response to these sorts of issues is in bold and underlined in a presentation at an International Women’s Convention on Idiot Men keynote address, because I assume it must be operator error. Probably the boot isn’t even in contact with the gear lever. You gave birth to our children while I experimented with nitrous oxide gas, how can’t you change down gears?

The gears were managed to be down-shifted, who knows what the problem was and further investigation was unlikely to turn anything up apart from ugly silences, and the road fortunately improved into Denver. A fabulous evening in a very high-quality restaurant with the cuzzies, which included a lot of learnings about what can and can’t be done by ex-pats in the US. Owning property? No worries. Buying firearms? No worries. Shooting things? No worries. Every time we have these conversations it makes us yearn for the good old days back home before a tiny minority of insane people ruined it for all of us. Anyway, no point in reliving the past when we were all super awesome and sexy, north beckoned on Day 75. The plan was up past our old favourite Loveland to Fort Collins, then west through the mountains. But first a Triumph miracle. When Cindy turned her bike on, everything had reappeared – modes, home button function, the lot. This is typical of Triumph electrical issues – they just need some quiet time to re-arrange the electrons into the right places. Hence my first response is just to stare at it, and this usually works. The route plan fell apart early on but recovered itself independently. GPSeses are peculiar things. We have identical models of GPS, and identical maps, with identical settings. So when a waypoint is put in, both should take the same roads. Usually they do. But when I was parked just off the Interstate on the Loveland exit, and an oblivious Cindy rides past at 70mph, without enough time for the intercoms to connect, and no way for me to get back on, it was every woman-man for themselves.

I felt comfortable back in Loveland, while Cindy felt comfortable in a nice Fort Collins coffee shop. Telecoms weren’t helpful – “Where are you? In Fort Collins. Where are you? In Loveland. I’ll try to find you.” Another call. “I can’t find you. The GPS is trying to take me somewhere that isn’t in the direction of Fort Collins. Righto. Let’s just use our powers of long-term marriage gravity to end up in the same place.” That actually works believe it or not, but no-one suffered because the separate roads we were on were both world-class, and we conjoined on the Poudre Canyon Road, one of the best we’ve ever done.

By now we were fully schooled in aspen. Aspen are trees. We’ll debate that with anyone who thinks otherwise, and so getting photos with aspen became a bit of a thing, along with getting lunch. Rustic Village, which is a rustic village satisfied the lunch part, and a random camping ground satisfied the aspen part.

Enough of the aspen, we continued north and hit the border into Wyoming again. The scenery changed dramatically, out of the mountainous stuff and onto the plains.

The day ended in Rawlins Wyoming. Why Rawlins? A) It was on the way, and B) It had the Wyoming penitentiary. Apparently, there was a pair of moccasins made from the skin of an escaped prisoner who was lynched by the Rawlins public. We of course needed to see those, and so shall you in the next instalment.