Leanings

LEANINGS

The Road to Sturgis

Peter Egan

“YOU’RE GOING WHERE, ON WHAT?” “To Sturgis, on a couple of Ducatis.” It was an age-old question, asked with equal incredulity 18 years ago when I rode my Honda 400F from Wisconsin to New Orleans.

With the upcoming Sturgis trip, however, it was immediately followed by two other questions: “Won’t Ducatis be uncomfortable on such a long, dull ride?” and “What’ll all those Harley guys think of a couple of Italian sportbikes?”-the latter implying a certain intolerant menace.

On the comfort question, my stock answer was, “I have a good Corbin seat and the Ducati has a moderate, comfortable riding position.”

In answer to the Harley-guy issue, the response was, “Harley owners tend to like big Twins, but it’s a free country so who cares what they think? They ride their bikes, I ride mine.” Then, doing my best Peter Fonda impression, I’d squint slightly and add, “Freedom’s what it’s all about, man...”

The fact is, I had a Harley on order, a ’97 Road King, but my dealer informed me it was being shipped from York on the very day my friend Pat Donnelly and I were leaving for Sturgis.

Just as well. Pat, after a 10-year hiatus from motorcycling (following an accident and a minor concussion that rendered him temporarily sensible) had just bought himself a clean, used 900SS-SP almost exactly like my own. Two Ducatis would work better on the road together than an FLHR and a 900SS, which would be like flying somewhere with a Waco biplane and an F-104. A Road King’s cruising speed and a Ducati’s stall speed are almost the same.

Also, I thought it would be more fun to have something other than a Harley at Sturgis. I feel the same way about Daytona, and normally take one of my British Twins or the Duck, just to give people something different to look at. The novelty is always appreciated.

Anyway, Pat and I left in early Sunday-morning darkness on the roads of rural Wisconsin, riding through pockets of ghostly fog, swerving around three assassination attempts by deer. We waited 15 minutes in warm, rising sunlight for a restaurant in Dodgeville to open, ate pancakes and then crossed the Mississippi at LaCrosse.

We followed Highway 16 along the Root River, one of the greenest and loveliest winding valley roads I’ve seen, and then rode Highway 30 through the picturesque small towns of Minnesota, stopping for the night at a cheap, clean motel in Pipestone. First day, 490 miles, one rainstorm, no problems.

“This is the best day of riding I’ve ever had,” Pat said, before drifting off to sleep in .03 seconds.

The next day Highway 30 turned into 34 at the South Dakota border, the trees tapered off into open Western skies at the Missouri River and we rode all day on Highways 34 and 44, which were sweeping, fast and nearly empty. A few bikes here and there, but not many. Only at gas stations did you see an accumulation. We did a short, 25-mile jog on the crowded, truckblasted interstate and saw lots of bikes.

When we stopped for gas, Pat said, “Why are those people riding motorcycles on the interstate? The two-lane roads are wide open.”

I shrugged. “Maybe the signs are easier to follow.”

We cruised through Winner and rode into the Badlands, which are always bigger and badder than I remembered, arriving in Rapid City in late afternoon. There, my scrawled tankbag directions led to the home of my old friend Jim Buck. I met Jim years ago when he volunteered to let CW test his Moto Guzzi V-50, just so he could read a road test on the bike. I crashed the bike (minorly) and we’ve been friends ever since.

Jim threw a chili-bash that first night, introduced us to his charming, motorcycle-knowledgeable friend Mary and took us to the short-track races in Sturgis the next night. Jim had to work during the day, so Pat and I wandered around Sturgis, looked at displays and the motorcycle museum, ate concession-stand delicacies, regarded various bikes, drank beer, listened to blues bands in the Broken Spoke Saloon and just watched the people go by.

Downtown Sturgis has the relaxed, easy-going atmosphere of a state fair, but without the element of hormonedriven teen angst. Like Daytona, this is mostly a crowd that threw its last punch a long time ago, last fell down drunk in the gutter one or two decades earlier. Good manners and good times prevail. No one is ruffled. Most of these people have children-whom they are trying to keep from acting, God forbid, as they did at that age.

And everywhere we went, Harley owners wanted to know about the Ducatis, or had read all about them and said they were thinking of buying one. A guy on a heavily built Softail followed us off the interstate into Rapid City and flagged us down. He was about to order one and wanted to know if we were happy with the bikes.

“Absolutely,” we said.

Over and over again, we heard the comment at stoplights, “Nice bike!”

On Thursday night, Pat and I went to the Black Hills AMA Half-Mile National and the next day headed home the long way, riding west into the Black Hills, then south into Nebraska.

We spent one night in Winner and another night in architecturally magnificent (seriously) Mason City, Iowa. “Time for the 3 M’s,” Pat decreed, “Margarita, Meal, Movie.” All of which we found.

On Saturday, we dashed over the backroads from Prairie du Chien to Pat’s house in New Glarus, Wisconsin, on a sunlit sportbike ride from heaven.

Suddenly we were home, 2200 miles and seven days later. One of the best trips ever.

So, as to those questions about discomfort, dull roads and Ducati intolerance in Sturgis, the answers are still no, no and no.