“What if I run out of gas? What if I get a flat tire? What if I break down? What if it rains? What if we get beat up by bikers?”
The questions above delivered in rapid succession were our mockery of other motorcyclists, who were always invited on our trips, but who never left town. The last question was made up as an ironic exclamation point to the others. Ironic because we considered ourselves bikers.
I had been riding for about ten years. I’d had a good run with no major breakdowns that required a tow truck, and no major rainstorms that lasted more than an hour. That was all about to change.
I packed my bike and set off on the 1,200-mile ride home from Sturgis. It was morning but it was dark. The sky was black with rain clouds. It wasn’t raining but if felt like the sky was ready to turn into a waterfall at any moment. I could see intermittent lightning shooting across the sky from every direction. These conditions continued for hundreds of miles as I travelled east through South Dakota on Interstate 90. No rain — just dark skies and lightning in the distance. I pulled off the highway to fill the gas tank.
There were four other riders pumping gas. They were riding Harley Davidson full dresser touring bikes. They all wore rainsuits that were dripping with water.
“Which way you headed?”, one of them asked me. I pointed east.
“We just came from there,” another one replied as they all looked at me and shook their heads. “You better suit up,” he continued. “It’s not good.”
I didn’t own a rainsuit. The wind was starting to pick up and the temperature was dropping. I pulled my leather jacket from my right saddlebag and put it on before heading for the interstate on-ramp. The dark sky continued lighting up sporadically in all directions, but didn’t let any rain out.
Then it started, light at first, then gradually getting heavier. I heard a loud crash of thunder for the first time that day. I had no windshield to block the rain. Every drop to the face felt like a whip. I used my left hand to shield my face from the bottom of my glasses to my chin, as I gripped the throttle with my right hand and looked for an overpass to duck under and make a few adjustments. The whipping continued to pound my forehead. That was bearable, unlike when it was hitting my cheeks, nose, and lips.
Without rain I passed transport trucks on my right all day long. But when the rain started I had to slow it down quite a bit to adjust for visibility. Trucks were passing me on my left. Their violent wind and spray made it very difficult to see. I rode like this for about ten minutes until I saw an overpass. I slowed down and gradually moved onto the paved shoulder as I came to a stop under the bridge.
I put my bike on its kickstand and dismounted. I opened my saddlebag and grabbed a folded cloth bandana from the top. I used it to wipe my face and hands dry, then my riding glasses and my chrome handle grips. I folded the square bandana diagonally into a large triangle then wrapped it around my face with the folded edge straight across the bridge of my nose just under my glasses, the open edges forming a V that hung down below my chin. I tied it tight behind my head, got back on the bike, and rode away.
Breathing through my nose pushed the air upward through the top of the bandana and fogged up my glasses so I had to switch to mouth-breathing. The bandana became so wet that I was taking water into my mouth and pushing it back out with every breath. This weather continued for another couple hundred miles. I was now on Interstate 29 heading south toward Sioux City, Iowa. There was water on both sides of my glasses. The bright lights from transport trucks traveling in the opposite direction were shining into my face. The water droplets on my glasses started splitting and bending the light so I could no longer see what was ahead of me. It was time to get off the highway.
I pulled off at an exit in Sioux City that had multiple motels and stopped at the first one, under the shelter by the front door. The rain was coming down hard and shooting out of a downspout like a firehose. I got off my bike, dripping wet, and walked toward the door. The building angled out to the right of the front door and had a sliding glass window. A lady slid the window open and asked me if I had a reservation.
“No,” I replied.
“We’re full,” she said.
“Do you know if any of the other motels at this exit have any rooms?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “They’re all full. There’s a large convention in town.”
“Do you mind if I sit under here?” I asked.
“No. Go ahead,” she said.
I sat down on the ground under the shelter away from the front doors with my back against the building. What am I going to do? I thought to myself. I’m soaking wet. I’m freezing cold, and I can’t ride in this weather anymore. It’s nighttime dark now and the rain is not letting up.
I wrapped by arms around myself, shivering. After about ten minutes the window slid open and the lady said “we just had a cancellation. Do you want the room?”
“Yes,” I said as I sprung to my feet and walked into the building. I checked in and got my room key. I took a long, hot shower that felt so good. I put my leather jacket on a clothes hanger and hung it from the shower curtain rod. I put my wet clothes in the dryer in the laundry room across the hall.
I got into the bed and turned on the TV with the remote control. The local news was on. “If you were outside half an hour ago, this is what you would have seen,” said the newscast lady. The screen cut to an image of a trailer park that had been destroyed by a tornado. I WAS outside half an hour ago, I thought. I retrieved my dry clothes, set the alarm clock for 3:00 a.m., and went to sleep.
*****
The alarm woke me up at 3:00. I looked out the window. The parking lot was mostly dry with a few scattered puddles. I took another shower, got dressed, and went out to my bike. I put my clear lens glasses on and pushed the start button on the softail. I heard the very sad, weak noise of a dead battery attempting to turn the electric starter. What next? I thought to myself.
With my hands on the handlebars, the bike in first gear, and the clutch lever pulled in, I started pushing the bike and running next to it. I jumped on the seat and quickly let the clutch out in an attempt to “push start” the bike. It almost started. I tried two more times and couldn’t get it to start. A cop pulled up in a patrol car and got out.
“You need help?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I’ll give you a push,” he said.
He started pushing me as I sat on the bike. I was probably going twice as fast as when I was attempting this solo. I let out the clutch and bike roared to life. I waved to the cop and headed for the interstate. I entered the highway and quickly shifted through the gears until I was in fifth gear and travelling at the posted speed limit. I was riding for about half an hour with no issues.
Why did my battery die? I thought. There must be something wrong with the charging system. Am I going to have to jump start this at every gas stop until I get home?
I was about an hour south of Sioux City and started looking for a gas exit. This will be my first test, I thought. Suddenly I heard a crackling noise coming from the bike as it lost power. There were sparks shooting out from under my seat. I coasted to a stop on the shoulder. I put the bike in neutral and pushed the start button, knowing what the result would be. Silence.
I was about 100 yards from an exit ramp so I started pushing my bike toward the ramp then up the hill. There was a gas station on the other side of the interstate so I pushed my bike across to the parking lot and put it on the kickstand next to a phone booth. I laid down on the sidewalk and went back to sleep.
I woke up at about eight o’clock in the morning with the hot sun warming my face. I bought a coffee from the gas station store. I went back to phone booth and found the number in the phonebook for the Harley dealership in Sioux City. I phoned at 9:00 as soon as they opened and they said they would send a truck to pick me up.
It was about 90 minutes before the pickup truck towing an enclosed U-haul-style trailer, with dealer graphics painted on the side, showed up. The driver secured my bike inside the trailer and I got into the passenger seat for a ride back to where I been last night.
They told me they had a bunch of scheduled jobs before they could look at my bike so I got comfortable in the waiting room and fell asleep for a couple of hours. When I woke up they were just bringing my bike into the shop. I watched the technician run his testing. He came out to talk to me.
“Your magic box is fried,” he said.
“Magic box?” I asked.
“Yeah, your voltage regulator,” as he held it out in his hand. “We need to replace it.”
“I just bought that,” I said. (It had quit on me in Sturgis and I pushed my bike down the service road behind the Dakota Spirit campground to a motorcycle repair shop. They had installed a new magic box a couple of days prior to this incident.)
“Aftermarket junk,” he said. “That’s what happens with that crap.”
Two new magic boxes. Labor. Towing. I can’t remember what it cost but it was a lot. I was on the highway heading south thinking depressing thoughts about the ugly dent in my credit card bill. I quickly cheered myself up by realizing how lucky I was to be back on the road with everything under control once again. And how I got to watch a tornado’s destruction from the comfort of a motel bed instead of being part of it. I had a couple more hours of sunshine, then the rain started again. It continued for another 400 miles.
Despite the rain, the breakdowns, and the adversity, a trip like this builds character, strength, and resolve. Not that I welcomed any of it — it’s the exact opposite. But I would have missed the fun, the excitement, the camaraderie, and the story-telling of an awesome 10-year run before this happened had I let fear stop me from leaving town.
Stayed tune for another magic box story as told by my good friend and riding partner.