The Black Hills of Dakota are motorcycle heaven and Sturgis holds the world’s largest motorcycle rally each year.

Thousands of bikers attend (official figure cite around 450,000) but nobody really knows because they don’t count them properly. In reality it’s nowhere near that number but it’s still pretty giganormous.

On the day we visited it was quiet, ghost town quiet.

Well, apart from these guys staying at our roadside motel (there’s a few more bikes in the car park you can’t see).

We unpacked and Susan relaxed in our room, located right in that dark corner beside the bike guys.

We had been allocated a room on the upper level but asked for a change to the ground floor to save me carrying the panniers upstairs. After I saw our new room allocation I wanted back on the upper level but didn’t want to ask for a change again just because I was a namby pamby.

They were all dressed in club leathers looking cool, hard and menacing, with most of the emphasis on menacing. A couple of the guys had t shirts with text that doesn’t need Susan to censor it in this blog. I’ve bloody censored it myself!

I thought I’d better introduce myself, front up and pretend I’m not namby pamby.

First, I gave myself the once over check to make sure the flashing light on my boom boom safety jacket wasn’t visible.

Then I made sure my zip was up and they couldn’t see my padded motorcycle pants.

I then breathed a sigh of relief I had stopped Susan, that morning, from sponging down my bike gear because they needed a ‘good clean’.

I looked like I had travelled. I looked dusty and in need of a good ‘sponging’. There’s no way they’re getting to know I’m a namby pamby.

We talked bikes, the weather, our route and beer. A good biker conversation and I think I pulled off the deception.

When I got back to the room, Susan said her usual ‘ooooooh you’ve been making biker friends again, that’s nice’. We laughed. I didn’t tell her who they actually were until after we left the motel.

You see these guys belong to what is commonly called an ‘outlaw biker gang’ by the department of justice. They’re one of the top ‘outlaw gangs’ in the world and their club history is as bad as you could possibly imagine.

Oh, I could tell you a story or two about our conversation but I won’t. Oh, I could tell you who they were but I won’t. Some things are better left unsaid.

One guy told me he had ridden 1900 miles in 24 hours straight. To be honest, I believed him. If he told you the story you would say you believed him whether you did or not. Trust me you would!

So to be safe, I’m saying nothing until I’m at least 48 hours riding away from these guys and I work that out as 3,800 mIles!

The next day we visited the Sturgis Harley Davidson shop and ‘Big Dog’ sat on her motorcycle throne. Nice.

Then we set off for Deadwood where Susan reciprocated with a photo of me.

Yes, I know – she set me up to look like a dwarf from the Lord of the Rings sitting on a normal sized chair!

Oh the guy looking over my shoulder is Wild Bill Hickok. He was shot and killed in Deadwood in 1876 whilst playing cards. It’s rumoured the cards he was holding included two black eights and two aces – now known as the ‘dead man’s hand’.

Here’s his grave.

I won’t tell you his story, interesting as it is. Instead, I will tell you about this colourful character.

Martha Canary was born in 1856 in a ‘rag tag’ family. She was left an orphan at aged 11 and had to survive by any means, following railroad, military or gold camps.

It’s most likely she earned her nickname ‘Calamity Jane’ because everywhere she went calamity ensued. Along the way she became an alcoholic, swore like it was her first language and joined in on most any dangerous opportunity.

She joined a military expedition and because women were not allowed on such expeditions, she dressed as a soldier. She gained notoriety for this act and was subsequently popularised through regional and national newspaper articles, dime store novels and books. In these days, everyone in America wanted to read stories of the ‘wild west’. Through these exaggerated publications she became larger than life.

It’s been rumoured that she had a romantic relationship with ‘Wild Bill Hickok’ and they were even buried side by side. Whilst they were acquainted, anything more is just a fanciful tale.

Whilst the many tales of her exploits were colourful, it was undoubtedly a hard life. Aged beyond her years, she died of pneumonia at age 47 in 1903.

She would be astonished to know we still talk about her and, as one of the great wild west characters, her memory will always live on.

Deadwood is another great place to visit. It’s full of cowboy stories and tall tales. Nothing is real for the old Deadwood was burnt to the ground several times and washed away by floods in other times.

The saloon where ‘Wild Bill Hickok’ was shot isn’t the place where he was shot but they will still charge you $10 to show you a backroom where it happened.

It’s all a bit of a ‘disneyesque’ creation – fun for a day or two but it’s soon time to move on.

Up in the morning and what did we see.

It’s 0c and the snow is falling. Thankfully the roads are clear – a local explained it’s because, at this time of year, the ground has retained heat.

We thought about staying another day to let it pass but there was a heavy snowfall predicted later that afternoon. Tomorrow didn’t look too good either.

Our planned 170 miles journey that day to Buffalo would lead us to a lower altitude and, hopefully, a few degrees warmer and no snow.

We would like to have waited until mid morning when the temperature rose slightly but the forecast said we had gale force winds in Buffalo at noon.

So we got on the bike.

I made a mistake trying to look after Susan and gave her my fleece top. We look after Susan when it’s hot and we look after Susan when it’s cold.

Yes, I see you shaking your head – thank you for sympathising. My life on the bike is indeed a bloody thermometer nightmare!

Awwww nice guy. Awwww daft guy!

The ‘feels like temperature’ in Deadwood was -7c standing still and I don’t know what it became when riding on the interstate.

I had three tops, boom boom vest, down jacket and my motorbike jacket on. It wasn’t enough. Susan on the other hand tucks in behind ‘big boy’ and is sheltered from the storm. If needed, she puts a hand down near the exhaust to warm.

I couldn’t see for the sleet snow sticking to my visor and our old Wyoming friend, high cross winds, battered us again.

I wanted to make good time and get to Buffalo without stopping before the wind peaked at noon but I had to stop after 90 minutes. I was frozen.

We came off the interstate when we saw a Maccies and nearly fell off at a junction – my arms and legs wouldn’t work fast enough because they were frozen stiff. I held the bike upright, only just, and saved us another £100 to recharge Susan’s boom boom jacket. Nice one frozen stiff man.

Once inside Maccies we warmed for 15 minutes and got back on the bike. No time to linger, only another 100 miles to go before noon.

It was a dual carriageway interstate with a mean elevation of around 5000 feet. The road had sheets of water coming off the mountains and, as it was quiet, and I rode in whatever lane had the least surface water. I had to.

The cars and trucks were all understanding. Not once did I get flashed or tooted for sitting in the outside lane for miles when the inside was ‘clear’ of traffic. Thank you Wyoming drivers! I’m not used to such understanding in the UK.

As the road went over the mountains, it’s bleak and miles from nowhere. We climbed through arctic snowy landscapes but, thankfully, the roads stayed clear of ice and snow.

We missed our noon deadline and suffered the consequences. Gale force freezing winds hit us. They really hit us!

It was terrifying at times. I really don’t exaggerate. But we keep on going because there is no other option.

Each time a hard journey like this happens I say to Susan that will be the worse day we have, it can’t get any harder than that. Then along comes a day like today.

When we arrived at our cheap motel, I sat in the motel room whilst Susan made me a coffee. I couldn’t stop shaking from the cold. I trembled all over.

Here’s Susan with my coffee looking cosy in my fleece.

Susan was mildly amused when she noticed I looked purple. No I wouldn’t let her take a picture – there’s was no way I was getting the name ‘big purple heid’!

That evening we went to the historical saloon in town. I got chatting to a guy at the bar and he said we had just missed hail the ‘size of softballs’ on our road that day.

Sometimes, when you think you’ve been unlucky with the weather you don’t know how lucky you are!

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