August 2, 2018
Day 0
My plan was to stop by Deadwood and pick up my trail pass from the nice folks at their Visitor’s Center. I arrived a little after 1pm and the town was already in full on Sturgis motorcycle mode despite the rally not starting in nearby Sturgis until the next day. Streets were beginning to be blocked off to make way for the flood of Harleys and other bikes that were already gathering. Deadwood is just a short roar of the tailpipes from Sturgis and acts as a surrogate host city for the rally. Having wall to wall casinos and saloons makes it a draw for the biker bunch even without it being the place where Wild Bill Hickok ate a lead sandwich. More about this later. While completely out of place with my pedal powered mountain bike, the folks at the visitor’s center were eager and helpful in getting my pass and supplying me with a map and other information about the George S. Mickelson Trail. The price was a bargain at $4 a day and $15 for a year.
Another hour’s drive through the Black Hills brought me to Keystone where my pal Dennis had a motel room that I was going to share. Finding a motel anywhere within a hundred miles of Sturgis is a neat trick any time during their big rally so I was happy that Dennis had a spare bed for me to crash on. I arrived a bit before check in and was deciding how to spend the next hour or so while waiting for the room when the desk manager asked if I had jumper cables. “Sure,” I replied and asked who needed a boost. He said that some guy had a dead battery on his bike and was unable to roll start it on the nearby hill. He was now stuck at the next motel down at the bottom waiting for a tow truck that would likely not be coming anytime soon. He said just look for a guy standing around with a forlorn look about him and blue Harley. Back into my Honda and down the hill I went.
I saw the motel and the blue Harley right away and looked around for Mr. Forlorn. Sitting in the shade nearby was some older dude who was talking on his cell phone. I did not recognize him until just as I started to lower my window. “Hey Dennis got a problem?” I asked. He looked up, not recognizing me for a second or so, and after a quick, “hey Bobby” launched into a dejected diatribe about motorcycles, the American Automobile Association, himself and other unsavory topics. It seems that his new Harley had this security feature that flashes the lights when the key is not in the ignition and if the bike is shaken or moved. It had been doing this for the past two days and 1500 miles, draining his battery at the same time. AAA would not jump start him and would only tow him to a service shop if and when they could get there. The Harley dealership in Sturgis was swamped in service calls and would also take quite a bit of time to arrive. No problem, my trusty, although rusty jumper cables were at hand and after getting his seat removed with the help of borrowed screwdriver, we were hooked up and ready for…nothing.
His battery was truly dead; as dead as a battery could be and my Honda and not too trusty cables were not up to the task. After 10 or so tries we admitted defeat and headed off to the nearest place to buy both some decent jumper cables and a battery charger. One and a half hours and number of dollars later were were back and ready to try again. This time we allowed his battery to charge off my Honda’s generator for about 30 minutes before giving his starter try and lo, like magic, his engine fired to life with that distinctive throaty roar know to all Harley owners. Time for dinner and an adult beverage or three.