The Less I Know, the Happier I Am

State Highway 46, westbound, Utah

To marvel at the sight of a newborn child is perhaps to appreciate perfection. Just as with holding a brand new laptop fresh out of its box, or running your hand across the fuel tank of a new motorcycle, we take pleasure in something unadulterated, yet lament that it will never be as pristine as it is now.

"He who knows nothing is closer to the truth than he whose mind is filled with falsehoods and errors." 

- Thomas Jefferson

In an attempt to downsize even further, I recently got rid of more childhood things. The old Mickey Mouse clock my mom bought me when I was a kid, the samurai swords that were in our living room when I grew up, pieces of dishware my grandmother handed to me, I felt ready to let them go. Even the Japanese geisha doll that my mom bought in the 1960s, and subsequently passed on to me with implicit instructions to take great care of, I don't want anymore.

It's amazing the amount of memories the brain can hold, and even more amazing of what emotions it associates them with. I suppose I could remember a lot more if I had only been more happier back then.

Maybe the reason why parents only take photographs of their children during happy moments is to save us from the pain of knowing all the shit we went through. I wonder how fucked up I would be if my mom videotaped herself beating the shit out of me, and saved them on Facebook for me to look at when I got older.

But instead of our minds developing into a well-crafted, evenly-balanced network of synapses, it's becomes more of a jerry-rigged patchwork of bridges, dead-ends, and detours designed to avoid the painful thoughts that mire our decision-making, and focus on what works to keep us alive.

Yet ironically, as I strip away more layers of material barrier, I feel myself getting closer to the truth of what I am.

And what exactly is that?

While it's generally accepted that knowledge comes with experience, I wonder if our path through life is more like a bell curve. We have to experience both the world and humanity just to end up back at where we started. We had to go through all that shit to discover that the less we know, the happier we are, that we're better off just being ourselves.

Those bridges, dead-ends, and detours are becoming more visible to me now that I don't need them anymore.

At the root of what I am is 50% of my father's neural network and 50% of my mother's. Everything else about me came from going up and over that bell curve. But if I were to strip away all of those experiences, I still could not be as pristine as I was when I was born. We can't unhear what we heard, and we can't unsee what we saw. It's a scab we can never pick off.

Truth is acceptance.

We tend to think that truth is reality. In fact, truth is not even fact. Truth is what is real to each person individually, just as "Harvey" was true to Elwood P. Dowd, and Santa Claus is to millions of hopeful kids. There are skyscrapers without 13th floors, and people who live on the 30th floor actually believe they are 30 stories up.

The root of what we are, is what we see in ourselves. Accepting that as true means we don't have to build bridges, dead ends, and detours to deal with the world we live in. Acceptance is to absorb everything we take in, add it to our neural pathways and not have to be traumatized by it.

"I am what I am, and that's all what I am." 

- Popeye

Another thing that's true is that I haven't been riding my motorcycle as often as I used to. I have been putting a lot of time into my website design work, playing Clash of Clans, and drinking beer. I don't know if that's going to change soon, but I know that life will change once Sash and I move out of this apartment and into our new RV.

By then, I hope to share more wisdom from the road with you.

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Confirmation Bias Under Temporary Permanence

Me (left) with Tom Rogers, Old Town Cemetery, San Diego, CA

This morning I woke up to realize that Sash and I are no longer motorcycle vagabonds, at least for the time being. The lifestyle of moving across the country whenever, and wherever it pleased us, has dropped us with a solid "thump" in downtown San Diego, CA.

I know this because a few weeks ago we signed a one-year lease on an apartment.

But it wasn't until this morning, when I rode my motorcycle to Phoenix, that it felt different. That is, riding my motorcycle across state lines doesn't feel like running away when I have a landlord and a contract waiting for me.

A few days ago, however, we were visited by Tom Rogers. Tom is a motorcycle vagabond. He doesn't have a blog however, and he doesn't post much about it on his Facebook. There's something kinda cool about being so humble. Not needing the approval or confirmation from others is a sign of strength. I don't normally tell strangers that I ride a motorcycle, nor even tell them about my tales of riding across the country, although obviously I do write about it here.

The fact that Tom would seek us out in our new confines is interesting to me. It comes just as when Sash and I have hung up our wandering boots for the cyclical routines of domiciliary motion. It makes me wonder, however, if a vagabond is always a vagabond. Did I spend my younger years as a wanderer in domestic's clothing? Is it possible to be temporarily permanent? His visiting us is like a confirmation for me.

Philosophers have insisted that "we see what we want to see", or that, "we attract what we are".

In science, they call this confirmation bias.

That is, we tend to search for, interpret, favor, and recall information that confirms our beliefs, while at the same time shutting out alternative ideas. It's why someone who believes in ghosts ends up seeing one, why someone who believes in aliens ends up abducted by them, and even why a woman born to white parents ends up identifying as black.

I guess it's because Sash and I had identified ourselves as motorcycle gypsies that we saw many of them and hung out with them. Some are still wandering on the road, Stephanie Yue, Joe Sparrow, Kevin Bean're. But some are also on temporary permanence like Tad and Gaila. There are also those who I have yet to meet like Ara Gureghian and Scooter Tramp Scotty. There are others that Sash have met that I haven't.

Perhaps the same is true with Tom Rogers; he stopped to see us along his interstate meander because his mind wants to see the same severance from everyday convention as ours. He likes being with people who follow the same path.

Or maybe he just identifies with people who have boring names like mine.

Confirmation bias keeps us from losing our sanity. There's just too much going on around us, and too many ways of looking at something, that we have to pick a path and follow it. Like-minded people such as Tom, Stephanie, Joe, et al, are like guide posts that keep me in my lane, even when I'm temporarily out of it.

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In the Desert, You Can't Remember Your Name

Nothing else seems more of an example of contradiction than the desert. Something so empty and featureless is yet so teeming with life. A place so hot and dry, and yet still snows and floods.

I don't know if I've become attracted to the desert just because I've lived in Southern California for so long, or if there's just something about it that I identify with.

The past couple of weeks, Sash and I have managed to mix business with pleasure here in the desert city of Tucson, AZ. At 520,000 people, it's effectively a "large" city, but yet it feels smaller. By contrast, the city of Phoenix to the north, along with its surrounding towns, commands 4 million.

Eastbound along Interstate 8, Arizona

But Tucsonians don't seem to see themselves as playing second fiddle. They're not really trying to be influential in the Grand Canyon State. They instead prefer to let the crazies remain up north, while they enjoy their own brand of insanity down here.

Since arriving here, we've had the opportunity to meet Mike & Chris, a couple of Royal Enfield riders. Chris had been following Sash on social media for the past couple of years, and when she heard we were headed to Tucson, she and Sash had arranged to meet at a nearby restaurant.

Later in the week, Chris and her husband invited us to their home for dinner.

The couple live on the west side of Tucson. Tucson is split between west and east by Interstate 10. The west side tends to embrace the desert landscape, with roads that curve and twist, whereas the east side is the older part of town that still embraces the traditional grid pattern of downtown and suburb.

Their home is very much nestled within the desert landscape, almost as if the structure itself was just dropped right in the middle of ocotillo, creosote, saguaro, and palo verde trees. They have an up-close view of the Tucson Mountains and the spectacular sunsets over Gates Pass.

"I just really love the desert", Mike said in his native German accent, as he was showing me his backyard patio and desert garden. "I don't know what it is, but I just feel at home here."

I had to agree with him. But for me, it's more like empathy, and thereby, compassion. There's something solitary about it, lonely yet still teeming with life, deadly yet still sensitive. I feel a fondness for it, which somehow attracts me back to it.

The desert is almost like a child holding on to its emotional scars. It can take a decade or more for sets of tire tracks to completely smooth over. Meanwhile in coastal areas, plains, and lush forested hills, plant life grows so quickly that the ravages of mankind are easily overcome. At the same time, the desert kills dozens of wanderers who come unprepared.

"There is no shortage of water in the desert, only exactly the right amount." wrote Edward Abbey, an author who died here in Tucson. Yet mankind continues to tame it, and change it into something that it's not.

Sash and I still have another week to spend here in "The Old Pueblo". We hope to see Mike & Chris once more, and hopefully meet some other riders too.

Me riding east along Interstate 8, Arizona	Sash riding along AZ-83
Saguaro Cactus add the signature visual that makes Arizona's desert landscape unique.	A tiny plant rises through the delicate, pebble top soil of Arizona's Sonoran Desert
An indian reservation near Tucson doesn't want outsiders poking around.	My bike parked in downtown Tucson, along the 4th Avenue shopping district
Chris & Mike, and myself, hanging out over coffee in Patagonia, AZ	Chris and Sash getting friendly ouside the local Royal Enfield dealer.

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Defining the Great Motorcycle Escape

Going to the Sun Road, Glacier National Park, July 2010

About a decade ago, give or take a year, there was born a magazine called "Motorcycle Escape" which celebrated the motorcycle rider who spent most or all of his/her vehicular time on two wheels, with an emphasis on going far, far, far away.

I guess that's really what Sash and I have coined, "Road Pickle". But where Motorcycle Escape covered it more as a recreational phenomenon, we look at it as a lifestyle that affects even your time off the bike. It doesn't matter than you still make the commute to work everyday. What matters is that your preferred choice of transportation and thrills has changed the way you live, reassessed your priorities, and shaped your perspective on the Universe.

When it comes to "escapism", I see so much of it going on in our lives that I'm often surprised how much escaping we do.

• Sitting at the bar with a beer is an escape.
• Watching a movie is an escape
• Playing a video game is an escape
• Writing blog posts and journals is an escape
• Taking a walk around the neighborhood is an escape
• Looking at social media is escape
• Going to the gym is an escape
• Sleeping is an escape
• Even when I'm developing a website for a client, it's an escape from reality

All of these things I do everyday. If so much of what I do is escapism, then what is not escape? What exactly am I escaping from?

"We don't create a fantasy world to escape reality. We create it to be able to stay." - Lynda Barry

"We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality." - Iris Murdoch

"A few years ago, the city council of Monza, Italy, barred pet owners from keeping goldfish in curved bowls... saying that it is cruel to keep a fish in a bowl with curved sides because, gazing out, the fish would have a distorted view of reality. But how do we know we have the true, undistorted picture of reality?" - Stephen Hawking

What Hawking is saying in a round-about way is much like what I'm asking. "What am I escaping from?"

If so much of what I do is escapism, can there be a point at which the act of escape becomes reality? Will I get to a point where I need to escape from escape?

Sash might tell you that I live in a fantasy world only because my tolerance of reality is so low. But living in fantasy is not a black and white thing. Each person does it in varying degrees. I'm still perceiving reality, but I typically see just enough of it to know that I'd rather sit on my bike.

The brain has a way of filtering information to better serve you. Whether it's filtering out noise so that you can see the danger, or that it's filtering out something traumatic that you don't lose your sanity, it's true that we each create a perception suited to protect and comfort us.

Hence, the act of escaping may be a way to keep our filters in focus. Maybe getting a headache is our brain's way of saying, "I'm confused, I need a break." All that's needed is some time to watch television, drink a beer, or play a video game.

If you're reading this, most likely you're someone who finds escape from reality on a motorcycle. To think that we take our bikes out on the highway so that we can immerse ourselves in fantasy, is perhaps the ultimate irony when it comes to keeping our eyes on the road. 

But it only goes to show how complicated the human species is. 

  

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Why Everything Will Be Okay

Petrified Forest National Park, AZ, 2014

When you consider we're just balls of energy inhabiting physical bodies for a brief moment, here on planet Earth, so much seems so trivial.


When I ride my motorcycle across the United States, and find myself on a long stretch of road cutting into hundreds of miles of open space, I can feel it.

Suddenly, the worry of having enough money goes away. Knowing where I'll be sleeping tonight doesn't matter anymore. My standing in the community becomes worthless. Stuff like my credit score, my taxes, even my business is so insignificant. I could just throw it all away.

All that matters is that I'm here, on this planet, with the chance to be in a physical body, to feel, to do, to experience. Just the fact that I'm alive, in this second, is all that really matters.

I could be in a downtown bar drinking a really good beer, or I could be homeless sleeping on a sidewalk, or I could be naked in the desert with nothing. Either way, I'm still thinking, feeling, and doing. I'm still soaking up what the Earth has to offer while I'm occupying this body.

Even if I were to die the next day, I still got to experience what it's like to be alive.

And I wouldn't really die. I just wouldn't have this body anymore. But who's to say that I won't occupy another body some other time, some other place? Why would I want to go to Heaven if I have to be there forever? I'd rather see it for awhile, and then move on.

It's making good with whatever life has given you, in the time you're here, is all that counts.

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The Answer to Life's Mysteries

Where I feel most safe

Perhaps the only answer I've been able to arrive at, with respect to life's mysteries, is that there's never really any gain or loss.

That is, for every dollar earned by a man, a dollar was spent by someone else. Every apple that grows from a tree, water, carbon, sunlight, was taken. Even when we gain knowledge, it seems we forget something else.

The Universe never gives without taking from another.

After so many years of riding long journeys on my motorcycle, I've gained a certain amount of richness. I see how vast the world is, but at the same time I feel more small. I see how intricate our society is and am only more confused.

It's as if gaining enlightenment is really just becoming more humble.

Part of me sees solutions to the problems that plague us, but on the other hand, patching a hole in one place seems to open up a hole somewhere else. It's like when you take a pill to cure an illness, and you end up with side effects from taking the pill.

In the end, I can never seem to get ahead. It's always one step forward and one step back.

I'd rather just lay myself afloat and let the highway's current deliver me to the answer. The realization I am just one small human being on Earth, let alone during a very brief moment of time on this planet's history, could either have me hurried in a panic, or calm in assurance.

Salvation along the Church of the Highway has it's unique brand of enlightenment for someone who's spent a lot of time inside their head. I often believe that the sight of trees, mountains, and rivers is an assurance that I'll return to someplace more ageless than where I am now.

Others can toss dollars into a tithing basket, and others still can consume alcohol at a late night happy hour, but it's all the same church. It's all just people releasing control and letting the Universe take them.

In the end, there are no winners and losers. Everything we've gained is taken away. Even the knowledge learned from our existence is useless at that point. It's better to accept others as they are than to ask for changes. The best answer to life's mysteries is to let go, let things be, and appreciate what comes our way.

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If Lewis and Clark Lived in Today's Age

Sash along US-95 South, Kofa National Wildlife Refuge, Arizona

Often times I can't help but compare myself to explorers that trekked across the mountains and valleys of America hundreds of years ago. But somehow, it seems that riding a motorcycle down paved roads is easier, safer, and more comfortable than the way men discovered these lands originally.

Yet, I still feel inspired at the sight of vast landscapes across the American frontier, just as they might have. I still become swallowed up into the fabric of flora, fauna as one of Earth's meager inhabitants. I think of Meriwether Lewis, documenting what he saw into his journals, and can't help but to see myself in the same way, as I write this blog.

But when I read the Journals of Lewis and Clark, I shake my head in wonder at how brave those men were. Even though I experience the same wonder of discovering new lands and new people, somehow what I'm doing feels a lot more easy.

Am I truly just a product of society? How much of myself is natural instinct, versus external influences, versus the DNA of my ancestry?

I watch this little girl named "Sophia", barely a year and a half old, reach for my smartphone and tap the buttons on its screen.  She only did so because the other adults in the living room were busy tapping the buttons on their smartphones too. As a little toddler, nature instilled her with the need to emulate adults. But instead of emulating skills basic to survival, such as digging up roots, or gathering tinder, she was building neural pathways critical for surviving in a technological age.

On the other hand, technological innovation is natural to human beings. It's our brains and hands that make us human, just like stealth and claws that make a cat, or flight and feathers that make a bird. And taking that into consideration, our brains can be influenced by other people, by our surroundings, and the current state of affairs we are in.

Sophia holds my smartphone

It also feels natural to me to open up my laptop, upload photos from my camera, and write a blog post. It feels so much a part of my nature to share it on Facebook, Twitter, and Google Plus. But things like a computer, camera, and the Internet, are just tools we created to help us live in this day and age. They're really no different than the arrowheads, baskets, and flint rocks that people relied on in a more distant day and age.

I often hear that people today could never survive in the wilderness the way mountain men and explorers did centuries ago. I suppose that's true in that I didn't grow up with up the skills needed to survive in the wild. But that doesn't make me less of a survivor. Our brains were not meant to remain as hunter-gatherers. It wants to take on tougher problems.

That's why human beings built civilizations, engines, and computers. That's why laws get more complicated and why the red tape in Washington DC continues to roll. I think it's also why we have the current political system in the United States. All of these things usher in newer problems and variables for our brains to feast.

I like to think that Lewis and Clark wouldn't know what to do with a Bluetooth headset, Google Maps, or online banking.

Yet strangely, I find myself attracted to the beauty of a desert landscape or mountain range. I still love the quiet of a starry night. There will always be bit of Lewis and Clark in me, even though I don't have skills to deal with the outdoors.

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The Prairie Dogs of Devil's Tower Are Fat

My Honda ST1300 against Devil's Tower, WY

People are naturally curious and take delight in things they've only seen on television. By contrast, prairie dogs are competitive, cut throat, selfish, and couldn't give a rat's ass if hand that feeds them became infected with the Hanta Virus.

It's interesting that what took up much of people's time at Devil's Tower National Monument was not the tower itself, but these burrowing little varmints that seemingly run roughshod over the area. Cars and RVs clamored for parking space along the side of the road so that they could photograph them. Others slowed down to see what commotion was about.

According to an article published in the Casper Star Tribune, the prairie dog count at Devil's Tower had been 62 in 1989, but went up to 496 in 2011.

In the end, the $10.00 per car park admission boiled down to just this, photo hungry tourists, cheesy Doritos, and chemically induced prairie dogs.

Otherwise, the land surrounding Devil's Tower is a lot of agriculture, both hay and cattle. Locals in the nearby town of Hulett sit at their tables inside Ponderosa Cafe minding their business as bikers and RVers step inside fascinated with the country kitsch that decorates the walls.

"Oh look honey! It's one of those old rusted cowbells! I want one for our Harley room!"

Sash felt a connection to Ponderosa Cafe because her maiden name is Cartwright, and she often keeps an eye out for anything Bonanza.

"Do you get a lot of people asking about Bonanza?" she asked the waitress.

She shook her head, indicating that she hadn't.

"We were kinda joking if you've got Hop Sing back there in the kitchen." Sash added.

The waitress looked puzzled.

"You know, Bonanza? Little Joe? My maiden name is Cartwright, that's why I asked."

The waitress apparently had never heard of the television show. It just made us feel really old.

"It ought to be required study if you're going to work at a place named, "Ponderosa Cafe", Sash whispered to me.

Outside the cafe hung a Budweiser sign that said, "Welcome Bikers". It's a remnant of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally, and is the same design that was displayed at thousands of establishments in a 100-mile radius of the Rally.

"Like I need a welcome bikers sign to make me feel safe about going inside", I said to Sash. "There's something disingenuous about it."

I'm sure next week will be going up another Budweiser sign that says, "Welcome Bicyclists", "Welcome WordPress Developers", or "Welcome Mary Kay Sales Associates".

And while on the subject of being disingenuous, just the name "Devil's Tower" is a sad commentary.  The original locals, the Plains Indians, called it, "Bear Lodge".  According to their folklore, a massive bear, with long sharp claws, tried to climb the tower and instead left scratch marks up and down its sides.

But it was an 1875 expedition led by Col. Richard Irving Dodge who misinterpreted the name to mean "Bad God's Tower", which then became Devil's Tower. In 2005, a group of American Indians led an effort to restore the name to "Bear Lodge National Monument", but was denied when locals worried the change would ruin their economic base.

As for the prairie dogs, Sash and I couldn't resist trying to photograph them too.  But we had the good fortune of better camera equipment, and didn't need to lure them with artery-clogging snack chips. I imagine since the last census count of 2011, their population is getting close to 1,000. I'm sure Prairie Dog Armageddon drawing nigh.

We stopped at a UPS Store to ship some stuff.	State highway 24 westbound from Aladdin, WY	Ponderosa Cafe in Hulett, WY
This sign at Ponderosa Cafe beckons us to enter	Sash checks her phone inside Ponderosa Cafe	The burgers are big and delicious at Ponderosa Cafe
Sash at Devil's Tower	Sash doing a better pose at Devil's Tower	Look at my stance, it says I own this joint!
This fat boy thought he was going to get Doritos from me	These signs are all over the place at Devil's Tower	Sash with Devil's Tower behind her
Sash and Devil's Tower in my rear view mirror	US-14 runs south along Keyhole Reservoir	The second straight day Sash wore her fox tail

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2014 Sturgis, SD, Day 6, August 6

Motorcycles along Lazelle Street, Sturgis, SD

Saying goodbye is never easy, especially if the person you're parting ways with is someone you really like. But once our five nights at Sturgis RV Park was over, Stephanie planned to resume her coast-to-coast trip west.

After her 250cc Vespa was loaded back up, we hugged and took the obligatory group photos. We promised to stay in touch and mentioned that our paths might cross again. Having had the chance to room with her at Sturgis, Sash and I feel that our lives are a little more enriched and that we've learned a little something about life and the mysteries of the Universe.

So now, Sash and I needed a place to stay for tonight. We looked around for rooms in Sturgis, but many were taken and of those still available, they wanted $400 to $500 a night. We finally found a Best Western in Deadwood for $250.00, one of the cheaper rooms still available. That worked out because after the pouring rain yesterday, Sash needed to get dry, and we both needed Wi-Fi to get our work done. On top of that, I had developed a bad cough and needed some sleep too.

But before making our way to Deadwood, Sash still had the new Indian Scout. She was due to take it back to Indian's storage facility by noon. I loaded myself up with meds and hung a camera around my neck. The two of us took off on some roads so that she could really give it a good test ride and get some good photos of her. I can't show you those photos here because they're intended for Women Riders Now, the publication we're doing the review for.

This afternoon we also got to spend more time with Jennifer. She's a friend of ours from Menifee, CA, the town where Sash and I met each other. Jennifer stands something like 5'11", has long legs, and holds a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do. She could mesmerize you with her good looks and then snap your head off with her legs. She's also last year's "Mrs. Menifee" beauty pageant winner.

Sash and I ended up at Easyriders Saloon that afternoon when a gal named, "Mayhem" walked up to us, and complimented Sash's hair and looks. They immediately hit it off like two peas in a pod. Both were loud, boisterous, larger than life, almost like they were trying outdo each other. Both boasted of handcuffing men, tying them up with rope, and spanking them. So, I stood up from my barstool and presented my ass to Mayhem. She spanked me so hard I took two steps forward and let out a yell. I put my arm around her and told Sash I was in love.

Hopefully our paths will cross again.

Someone stole some of our audio and video equipment. When Sash and I got back to our bikes, we discovered one of our bags missing. It was a small, pink Betsey Johnson bag that had been in Sash's saddlebag, and it held the battery charger for our video camera, as well as our microphone and Sash's digital camera, and action camera. All went stolen. We still had the video camera and all of my camera equipment, however. We repurchased everything on Amazon and had it shipped overnight to our upcoming hotel in Spearfish. Without it, we wouldn't have been able to do any of our work.

By the end of the day, Sash and I wandered into Deadwood and checked into our room at the Best Western. I had hoped to get some website design work done, but the meds had me too tired to concentrate, and Sash was too shaken up after finding our equipment stolen.

"I used to think we were among brothers and sisters here at Sturgis", she said. "How foolish was I to think that they're any different."

A group photo of Stephanie and us at Sturgis RV Park	Stephanie about to take off on her Vespa	Jennifer on her Harley Davidson Night Train
Josh Rogan performing at Easyriders Saloon, Sturgis	Josh Rogan performing at Easyriders Saloon, Sturgis	Sash and her new Dominatrix friend, Mayhem
A cutie at Easyriders Saloon	Sash and Jennifer with singer Mick Klein, Easyriders Saloon	Rockstar gave away free cans of their drink

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Klock Werks Pre-Sturgis Party, Mitchell, SD, July 31

Custom Indian Chief on display at Klock Werks Pre-Sturgis Party

Riding from Sioux Falls, SD to Mitchell, SD is only a 72 mile sprint along the I-90, hardly a sizeable chunk of real estate for a day's ride.

But the reason for staying overnight in Mitchell is to attend the 8th Annual Pre-Sturgis Party at Klock Werks Kustom Cycles. Under the headline, "Party Like a Corn Star", it's considered the biggest pre-Sturgis party, if you want to rub elbows with custom bike builders. Sash and I were stoked to be going.

Sash originally met Laura Klock at the Steel Horse Sisterhood Summit last May. Laura holds a world land speed motorcycling record. The two hit it off at the Sisterhood, and now Sash gets a chance to hook up with Laura at her crib in Mitchell.

It was also our first exposure to Chislic, which is apparently a unique South Dakota creation.  It's lamb or mutton kabobs, grilled and seasoned.  A local business "Kepp's Sheep Chislic" had set up a barbecue there, which was made out of an iron bull that blew smoke out of its nose.

Tonight's party was also a gathering of the Hamsters, which is an exclusive club of the big custom bike builders.  They came in yellow t-shirts, which you can see a couple in the photo above.  I didn't meet any of them.  But they're having a big dinner at Sturgis (I think technically Spearfish).

I also got to meet a couple of photographers who do photos for many of the motorcycle publications.  A guy named Rogue, and another guy I can't recall the name of.  It's interesting how many people were there that didn't bring business cards.  But I guess everyone there probably knows each other, and it's just me that doesn't.

Sash was excited to meet Kevin Bean're, who apparently doesn't have a job, nor a home, yet travels on his motorcycle (like us).  He's pretty popular at biker events, and in this case he's been hired by the "Legendary Buffalo Chip" as their official Mayor of Fun.  So, he does get some income.  Otherwise, he stays with whoever will put him up, and gets whatever chow he can get.  He actually arrived to Klock Werks via a 50cc minibike, starting from Louisville, KY.  He did 1,470 miles, which he claims is a new world record for consecutive miles traveled along a 50cc motorcycle.

The folks from Jack Daniels was there to announce a new line of whiskey, which I apparently didn't get the name of, nor was able to get a sample bottle of.  Indian Motorcycles was there to show their new 2015 Roadmaster.  Erik Buell Racing was there to show off their new 1190RX.

From here, we head into Sturgis.  Photos from yesterday...

Leaving our hotel in Sioux Falls	Sash with her new helmet visor	Sash riding along the I-90 west towards Mitchell, SD
Sash carrying her usual load of stuff	Me riding along the I-90 west towards Mitchell, SD	Stopping at Whiskey Creek Wood Grill in Mitchell
Rack of ribs at Whiskey Creek Wood Grill	Me with Laura Klock at the Party	Sash with Rogue, photographer for various biker publications
Asphalt Annie bared it all at the Party	Sash with Sara Liberte, founder of Garage-Girls.com	Sash posing with Kevin Bean're
Rita Adams of Motor Market Magazine and Lisa Brouwer of Full Throttle Living	Sash posing with Timolicious	Kevin Bean're with Karlee
Chislic are lamb kabobs smoked and grilled	Custom Indian Chief by Klock Werks Custom Cycles	The new 2015 Indian Roadmaster on display
Motorcycles parked outside Klock Werks Custom Cycles	Jack Daniels themed Indian Chieftain	Klock Werks is famous for its custom windshields

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