The Plan: to meet Jay and the McClaughlins (Frank & Brendan, aka Old Dog & Mad Dog) in Central Pennsylvania on Thursday night. As it turned out, this was the only part of the plan to go without a hitch. Mad Dog (who, of course, is neither) brought a dandy bottle of rum from St. Thomas; he, Jay, Old Dog (ditto) and I toasted our forthcoming adventure with cigars and modest sips on our rum & cokes. Then to bed, for an early start on Friday, with Hammond, Indiana as the first-leg goal.

Friday morning we set off on I80, maintaining a decent pace in the 75-80mph range. That's just an estimate, since no two bikes' (my '90 Ultra, Jay's '94.5 Road King, Frank's de-fiberglassed '85 E-Glide, and Brendan's hybrid rubber-mount softail) read the same speed at any given time. Immediately upon crossing the border into Ohio, Frank signalled for what would be the first of many side-of-the-road conferences. In this instance, the purpose was to inform us that in Ohio — and all of the remaining states we would traverse — we were free to choose our own headgear for the rest of the journey. Out came the bungee cords and bandanas, off went the helmets, and that was the dress code for the rest of the trip. It was wonderful! Of course, being from a helmet state I didn't know how to tie a bandana; after a very few miles I was riding bareheaded, with my hair — such as it is — whipping my scalp in a way that wasn't altogether unpleasant.

Hammond is on the other side of Chicago, and our itinerary called for a clever bypass of that city's notorious section of I90. By looping down to I294 we would avoid I90's cratered surface and bumper-to-bumper traffic. Alas, I294 was under serious construction, so we all got to exercise our clutch hands. After a short and frustrating time, Frank allowed that lanes were for babies, and suggested a bit of lane-splitting and median riding. The three of us — Brendan had already begun a detour to Columbus, to collect a lovely young thing — thus left traffic behind and, thinking to look at a map, took the next exit. Somehow we wound up in what appeared to be Beirut after a particularly effective bombing raid, but was actually Gary, Indiana. Let me tell you, Meredith Wilson got it all wrong!

Back to I294, and to Hammond, where rooms awaited our late arrival.

During this leg of the journey — it's still Friday, remember — we had stopped several times in an attempt to stop Frank's bike from losing oil from its lifter blocks. We weren't able to properly tighten the blocks, and the bike was beginning to make some nasty noises, so after a short ride on Saturday morning we decided to make a stop at a dealer. The nearest one turned out to be Kegel, in Rockford, Illinois. Great dealership: we had breakfast at the diner that's part of the facility. They also sell BMW, and had a cruiser on the floor. Let me tell you, the bike is a knockout... right on target and a winner in every way. (That some members of the BMW crowd find it offensive, speaks more about their own limitations than those of the bike itself.)

Kegel's service people battened down all of the hatches on Frank's bike, filled all of its reservoirs, and pronounced it fit to make the journey. I bought a splendid Genuine (TM) black headwrap, and although I didn't pick up a new BMW — even the Ultra doesn't have enough storage space — Jay put his Corbin pillion pad to good use: Saturday was Bikini Bike Wash day at Kegel, and he enticed Tracy, one of the washers, to join us. (Needless to say, this changed the entire tenor of the journey, the details of which are beyond the scope of these notes!)

Back on I90, and somewhat behind schedule, we hammered along in the 80+ range, put Wisconsin behind us in relatively short order, and crossed the Mississippi into Minnesota shortly before 5pm. The goal was to sleep in Sioux Falls that night, and despite the delays it seemed eminently reachable. Then, about two minutes into South Dakota, Frank's bike began to spit pieces of what turned out to be the belt. We pulled over, whipped out a cell phone (one of the five best tools to keep on a Harley), and with five minutes to spare reached the LaCrosse dealership. They promised to send a truck for Frank and his bike, and to work on it on Sunday. Thus assured, Jay, Tracy, and I continued to Sioux Falls, where we hoped to receive a message from Frank that all was well. We checked in, I don't know... ten, ten-thirty, and a message was, indeed, waiting. It said "I'll be there tonight." My oh my!

We didn't wait up, but the next morning met Frank for breakfast and got a look at his new bike. He had traded his broken Electra-Glide (and a chunk of Amex cash) for a low-mileage 1990 Softail Custom, with Fat Boy front wheel/tire, 89 c.i. stroker engine, and lots of other go-fast stuff. Cool. And loud. Very loud.

Sunday's ride was a piece of cake: only one state. We arrived at the Rushmore Inn sometime in the afternoon, discovered it to be a monumental dump, and — having prepaid back in January — checked in anyway.

Here are just a few random impressions — disjointed, out-of-order, and in all likelihood inaccurate — of the event.

The riding ranged from potentially wonderful to wonderful, depending on the volume of traffic needing to be passed at any given moment. To be sure, some of the these members of the anti-destination league were in cars or — worse yet — motor homes. We followed one of those up "the pigtail" at a rollicking 10-12mph. But those of us who enjoy scraping a dresser's floorboards were often hamstrung by our two-wheeled brethren. These bikes, — from Kansas, Nebraska, Ohio, etc. — never had to lean more than 10 degrees on the roads at home, and by gum, they wouldn't lean more than 10 degrees on the Needles Highway or Spearfish Canyon Road. On the positive side of this parade-style motoring is the potential to pay attention to the scenery, which was as breathtaking as you have been led to believe, and then some. (And remember: I do most of my riding in upstate NY, where wonderful roads and scenery are the rule, not the exception.)

At the urging of Mike Kelly's cousin Steve, a few of us descended on the block-long hamlet of Hulett, Wyoming to partake in what's called No Panties Wednesday. Dennis, upon learning of this potential hotbed of depravity, explained (somewhat wistfully, I thought) that he couldn't subject the lovely Anne to such a thing. Anne — to her great credit — took umbrage at this unilateral decision, but still I rode off alone. The plan was for me to meet Mike and the rest of the Kellys at noon, at the town's sole intersection, and I rode off confident that the rendezvous would go as planned.

Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that word of No Panties Wednesday had leaked out: Hulett's Main Street looked very much like its Daytona Beach (or, for that matter) Sturgis equivalent. I crept along, looking for Mike and/or a parking spot. There was a theory that you'd always find who you needed to find at a Grateful Dead show, and over the course of more than 100 shows, I found that to be true. There are no more Grateful Dead shows, but the same deal seems to work at motorcycle events: I encountered Mike and a parking spot simultaneously. But as far as the No Panties thing goes... nothing. Maybe there was too much of a crowd, maybe it's just a hoax designed to sell cold drinks. Whatever. I did get a nifty pin, showing Devil's Tower, which we rode past shortly after leaving Hulett.

(Apropos Devil's Tower, it's interesting to note that the lunatics who decide to scale that edifice aren't made to wear helmets. Perhaps some do; I don't know. But I haven't heard a great deal of noise being made about the "cost to society" of climbing accidents, or skiing accidents, or swimming pool accidents for that matter.)

Downtown Sturgis is interesting in that there are two "main streets" running parallel, one block apart. The one that appears in all the magazine photographs — with bikes parked both at each curb and in a chevron row down the center of the wide thoroughfare — has the same sort of shops you'll find in Daytona Beach. T-shirts, leather, buffalo burgers, pins... all the usual attractions. The other main street has more of a flea market feel, with tents set up in parking lots and exhibitors hawking their wares in and around the Civic Center. That's where you'll find the Name Brand merchants — Arlen Ness, Performance Machine, Crane, et al. At the other end of that street is Sturgis' world-renowned, and as far as I know only, biker bar, The Broken Spoke. (It's interesting to note that the Daytona area is loaded with famous bars. Perhaps it's to compensate for the crappy riding environment.)

A sprawling indoor/outdoor complex, The Broken Spoke offers beer (including, at a separate stand within the perimeter, some nice micro-brewed stuff), fried spooge on a stick, entertainment (stay tuned!), and an impressive collection of vintage motorcycles arranged — like collectors' plates — on a high shelf that runs around the wall of the larger of the main rooms. That room is also equipped with a network of pipes that sprays a cooling mist, and wards off the heat prostration that might otherwise fell paying customers. The central courtyard consists of a bandstand and dance floor, and when the bands aren't playing an emcee runs contests to keep the crowd entertained. One consisted of strong men holding gallon jugs of water at arms' length, elbows locked. Ho hum. Far more interesting, at least from my perspective, was the popsicle licking contest, entered and won by Jay's own Tracy. The details of her performance are beyond my modest a abilities to relate; I will allow that it caused the aforementioned strong men, and everyone else in the vicinity, to grow weak in the knees.

Sturgis and Daytona have in common the curiously mellow behavior of what is, let's face it, a ferocious-looking horde. I noted this phenomenon during my first Bike Week in 1992, and continue to marvel at it. Someone (Frank, I think), mentioned it in Sturgis, commenting that the slightest jostle was always followed by a quick "excuse me, bro" or the equivalent. Wonderful!

There's way more to tell, but in the interest of brevity I'll just hit the highlights with a few bullet points:

+ ZZ Top was great. Why was I the only one dancing?

+ Kudos — big kudos — to Jay for the tattoo.

+ Better accommodations must be found for next year.

+ The Road Glide isn't nearly as bad as the first pictures indicated. In fact, there's a decent chance that I'll order one up instead of the Ultra that's slated to replace the Anniversary dresser I just passed on due to its underwhelming appearance.

+ Helmet laws suck.

The schedule of our journey home was dictated, in part, by Jay's inexorable need to be in the office, necktie and all, on Wednesday morning. Jo Ellen, too, had a supervisor to deal with. She needed to be in Columbus on Monday morning. Based on the westbound experience, we decided that these goals could best be achieved with a Saturday departure. (This despite our having paid a king's ransom to secure the aforementioned palatial digs through Sunday.) So, after bidding a less-than-fond midmorning farewell to our home away from home, we headed towards I90. Two minutes later, we stopped for cheap T-shirts; five minutes later, we stopped for a leisurely breakfast, or perhaps it was brunch.

These last-minute chores attended to, we (Jay & Tracy, Brendan & Jo Ellen, Frank, and I) found the appropriate on-ramp and headed east on I90. We had originally thought to take the Badlands bypass, but the sudden realization that we were already behind schedule (so to speak) kept us glued to the Interstate. We encountered some dramatic and consistent crosswinds during this stage. They were particularly fond of the E-Glide's batwing fairing, and I found myself countersteering for several hours straight. The consistency of the wind, and the lack of regular visual clues as to its presence, made me wonder whether the bike had somehow become misaligned. It was only during one of our fairly frequent passenger adjustment interludes that I realized the strength of the wind. We encountered far more bikes than trailers during Day One. One of them was a '39 knucklehead, being ridden a good distance home at close to the 75mph speed limit. We also passed a couple of Hondas, a Silver Wing and something else, and gave them a friendly wave. Over the course of the next hour or two we passed them at least twice again, waving each time and perhaps causing them and us to contemplate the slow-and-steady proverb. We stopped quite a bit on Day One.

Which is why Sioux Falls, still South Dakota, didn't appear on the horizon until after six p.m. We bought gas, and in a rare burst of lucidity I suggested that we might make some phone calls in an attempt to secure a room for the night. The notion was to reach mid-Minnesota before bedding down. Jay quickly called half-a-dozen of the big Motel chains, and reported that we were, in a word, screwed. Heading further east would leave us searching for mom'n'pop motels in the middle of the night. I then made another suggestion, which turned out to be absolutely brilliant and for which I take full credit.

Noting a full-fledged South Dakota nightclub/restaurant across the street, and a Name Brand motel right next door to it, I recommended a) that we chow down, and 2) that Frank snag us four rooms if such were available. As it turned out, they were, he did, and all was well. We enjoyed a decent meal — the salad bar had herring for heaven's sake — and then repaired to the casino for drinks and dancing. And all the while, the desk clerk at the motel was telling other latecomers that "there's not a room to be had for 100 miles in any direction." Hah!

Sunday morning found us bidding Jo Ellen adieu, as she had opted for a quick flight home from Sioux Falls. Brendan dropped her at the airport, and we were soon back on the road. Showing a bit more sense than was the case to that point, we had booked rooms at the Marriott Courtyard in Rockford, IL, our evening's destination. So: We're humming along in one of those big states in the middle of America; maybe Wisconsin. Brendan's in the lead, followed by Frank and Jay; I'm bringing up the rear.

My recollection of the next twelve seconds or so might be a bit off-the-mark, but here's how I remember it. For some reason — probably a pass — interlopers separate our group. We're now in the left lane, and there are vehicles separating Brendan and Frank from me and Jay. Suddenly (and isn't it always "suddenly?") there's a smoke up ahead, and wham, there's Frank pulling onto the left shoulder. Jay and I take full advantage of our MSF/ERC training and perform textbook stops just a few yards ahead of him. Brendan is a taillight in the distance, and Tracy has come this close to heart failure.

Now, Frank had been noting the presence of some new-and-interesting noises from his new-and-interesting motorcycle, and truth to tell, our recommendation had been earplugs. Well, it turned out that Frank's noises weren't just normal Harley sounds. They were the sounds of Frank's stroker bidding a raucous farewell to Frank. (Questions to be considered for next semester: Are strokers A Good Thing, or are they Full-Tilt Bozo? If the former, should they be equipped with rev limiters? Was Frank's stroker, Good or Bozo, equipped with a rev limiter?)

Once again, the very best tool one can carry on a Harley was brought to the fore: the cell phone reached out and touched AAA. I shook Frank's hand, wished him better luck than he'd been having, and headed off to find Brendan and bring him up to date. He was waiting a mile or so up the road, and together we waited for Jay and Tracy. They soon joined us and, now a quartet, we continued on to Rockford and the joyful reunion of Tracy and her daughter.

Tracy, the daughter, and The Guy She Left Behind met us for breakfast at Kegel Harley Davidson (which you'll recall as The Place It All Began). While there I bought a small jar of touchup paint to repair the scrapes on the saddlebag lid that flew off somewhere around Spearfish. (Did I leave that story out of Part 2? I'll be real glad when the new bike, with its permanently attached lids, arrives!) Tearful farewells, blah, blah, blah, and then into the rain and crappy traffic for the rest of the day. Naturally, I had shipped the waterproof boots home, and was wearing the oh-so-comfortable, but spongelike Corbins. But the Darien jacket proved its mettle, as did the Motoport Gore-Tex rain pants.

Brendan rode with us as far as whatever turnoff he took to rejoin Jo in Columbus; finally it was down to me and Jay, slogging across the most dismal landscape of the trip in a truly filthy rain that coated us and the bikes in a clay-like spooge. We ended the day in Sandusky, which is everything you might imagine Sandusky to be.

Tuesday was bright and sunny — or maybe it wasn't, but anyway it was way better than Monday, no great trick, really. The only bit of excitement occurred when we got gas and Jay's bike wouldn't start. It just clicked and buzzed at us so I pushed it, Jay dropped the clutch, an it fired up just fine. This was about 400 miles from home, and Jay didn't switch the bike off from that point on. I peeled off in central PA and made it home without drama; Jay made it to his garage, where the bike remained until his dealer picked it up a few days later.

And that's how we spent our summer vacation.