But when you are stopped for gas at a dull intersection in an unidentifiable town somewhere on the Texas Gulf Coast, it's hard to see the beauty. You could squint. But it won't help.
And while I have wonderful memories of the last 24 hours, not the least of which was eating eggs and sausage at five in the morning with two brothers talking about tattoos and Shovelheads, I would be a liar if I tried to convince you, O reader, that my focus was on what was right in front of me.
Three of the people I was with last night are going on our cross-country run that starts in about a week. And while we were surrounded by good times last night, all we could talk about was Sturgis and the road. There was the occasional interruption, mind you, of singing Jerry Jeff Walker songs. And I'm sure there were other topics of conversation. But the one near and dear to my heart was a trip I have anticipated now for I don't know how many years.
Get on the road to Amarillo. Make your way up through the Raton Pass from New Mexico into Colorado. Spend a week with blood family in Estes Park. Go solo up into north-central Wyoming through the Bighorn Forest. Make your way over into South Dakota where hundreds of thousands of your closest friends motorcycled their way to the pilgrimage site. Spend a few days riding the Badlands, Devil's Tower, Deadwood, and Crazy Horse. Ride through scenic, beautiful Nebraska. (Really?) Scoot eastward to Kansas City, drop down to Joplin, Missouri, and get on Route 66 for the better part of the afternoon. Get up the next day in Oklahoma City and make your way back to Houston.
Fourteen days of nothing but riding.
Can you tell what's been on my mind lately? I'm sure that I will write about other things in the coming week.
But I can't for the life of me imagine what they will be.
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