Well Howdy Pardners, I've been a bit busy riding lately, so let me bring you up to speed. Boy, those new tyres make a difference. I could feel it as soon as I rode away from the Dealership. Bye bye Bridgestone, (stick to making tyres for taxis), hello again Metzeler Tourance, XXXX. Speaking of kisses, I headed off from Loveland on the Interstate, and within an hour I was rolling through Cheyenne, the capital of Wyoming. I had no intention of stopping, and it looked like the biggest building in town was City Hall, a very low rise capital city it seems. I guess no one worries too much about what happens in Wyoming, a bit like South Australia really. But do people ever stop and wonder where their hamburgers and steaks come from?? So far, I am yet to see any Indians (subcontinental) in Wyoming, what happens to cows around here must be too traumatic for Hindus.
I was heading for Hot Springs, South Dakota, my jumping off point for the Black Hills. The scenery soon changed to rolling prairies covered in short grass. I don't know whether the cows keep it short, or the wind pushes it over, or if it stops growing all by itself, but there is a hell of a lot of it in Wyoming, and the wind was picking up again. I am really getting sick of the bloody wind, and it seems to pick up some real speed in the afternoon, then die down in the evening. I don't know if it seasonal, or related to the terrain, or what, but it makes riding distinctly unpleasant, not that I'm complaining. Alright, a bit. Here's something you don't see everyday in Australia. Nothing like having your own oil well down on the farm, to supplement the income when beef prices are down, which is .... never. There are quite a few of these dotting the landscape, they remind me of large birds, pterodactyls if you must know, pecking away rhythmically at the landscape. Weird.
So, after being blasted by the afternoon winds yet again as I rode through more of the unremarkable terrain of south east Wyoming, I crossed into South Dakota. All of a sudden, it got hillier, the hills were pointier, and often flanked by pine trees. It looked like a giant park, and was altogether an exceedingly pleasant visual spectacle. And I liked it as well.
I found my motel without any trouble, and got the usual head wobbling greeting from the Indian (subcontinental) behind the desk, who only had to ask me my name four times before I wrote it down for him, tersely I might add, in LARGE letters on a bit of paper, while simultaneously pointing to my name on his computer screen. I'll jump the counter and throttle one of the bastards before this trip is over, I swear.
And speaking of Indians, a quick walk around town and a visit to the supermarket turned up an interesting demographic fact. At first I thought there were a lot of Mexicans in town, but no, they were actually Indians (Native), the biggest concentration I have seen so far. None of them looked particularly happy, or particularly busy for that matter, quite a few of them were clearly drunk, and that didn't stop them getting into their beaten up old cars and driving somewhere, usually at 20 mph. In the supermarket car park, an Indian (Native) guy dropped something while loading groceries into the boot of his car. I picked it up and handed it back to him, and he didn't say a word. Well, the world needs ditch diggers too, pal, but I suspect even that would be too highly skilled for you. By the way, nice country you had. Nothing to do with me, I'm just passing through.
Hot Springs looked like a nice town, with some interesting and substantial buildings, but had clearly fallen on hard times. Quite a few businesses closed up, lots of for sale signs, and I suspect, very few takers. Except perhaps the Indians (subcontinental), who must reckon all their birthdays have come at once in this country.
Pretty soon I was rolling northward, the weather was just perfect, and I reached Custer State Park, where my National Parks Pass wasn't worth diddley squat. Ten bucks later I was stopped at a herd of buffalo, wondering which one of the big, cantankerous bastards was going to kill me first. Probably this one.
Or possibly any of these, take your pick. Eventually I figured if they're busy eating, they were too preoccupied to gore me to death, so I snuck past, but quickly and quietly.
So I survived my first encounter, and the boost to my confidence was immense. I spent quite a while just criss crossing the magnificent landscape of the park, just taking it all in, it really was superb. Here's the stretch through The Needles, not hard to work out how they got the name. Possibly more phallic than needle like, I thought, but let's leave Freud out of it. Rest assured if this was in Australia, it would be an Aboriginal scared site quicker than you could say "Mineral Rights".
I then headed north to check out Mt Rushmore. A bit more splendid scenery on great bike riding roads had me within sight of said mountain. From a few miles away, it looked just like the photos. No surprises there. As I got closer, it became apparent that one has to actually pay to get much closer. Yeah, well I've already seen it, I said to the guy collecting the money, as I made a quick U-turn. This process was repeated a few miles down the road at the Crazy Horse carving, which isn't even finished, still they want people to pay! Well, I didn't want to see either of the things that badly.
I spent quite a while musing over the whole thing. Is it legitimate art to carve something on that scale into an otherwise pristine hillside, or is it environmental vandalism? Let alone charge people to see it. But call it a National Memorial and that makes it ok? There was no shortage of punters lining up to pay the entry fee, so does that make it right? What if it was a carving of a giant buffalo's arse, and its (admittedly impressive) genitalia? I wrestled with this deep philosophical argument while I tried to regain my composure. There are millions of hills, whos going to mind if we just bugger up one of them in the middle of nowhere, in the name of patriotism? Yes, but its so subjective. I happen to like buffalos, why can't I carve a huge buffalo butt on a butte somewhere? What about building a road through the hills (or building anything anywhere, for that matter), tell me that's not eco-raping ? Yes, but we need roads, and so it goes on ad infinitum. Look, what about a quarry? Nobody minds if we wreck a perfectly good hill just to get at the rock, so we can crush it to make pre-stressed concrete bridges and garden gnomes, and other such essentials. So you could actually think of Mt. Rushmore as just another rock quarry, only this time they just took away all the bits that didn't look like a President. Maybe the Indians (native) have the right idea after all, just give up and stay pissed.
Look, here's how I reconciled the whole argument. Here's how I reconcile most things, if you haven't already realised. When in doubt, lampoon! On the way out of Mt Rushmore, I stopped where I wasn't supposed to stop, and took this seldom seen shot of George Washington's profile.
OK, here's a better look.
I reckon it looks less like George and a hell of a lot more like a shot of The Phantom * standing guard over the entrance to the fabulous Skull Cave in the Deep Woods. Am I right, or am I right?
* The Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die.
I proceeded further westward, cruising through Custer before crossing back into Wyoming, and sought my evenings lodging in the famous town of Sundance, of Film Festival fame. Yes, there is a statue of Harry Longbaugh in the main street. That's the original Sundance Kid, FYI. There is a lot of history around these parts, no doubt about that, and it really is very interesting. Just as well, because there's bugger all else in Sundance, and I don't blame Harry one little bit for moving to Bolivia. I knew I should have stayed in Custer, but there you go. I did actually see two deer in the main street last night. Neat, but for some reason this failed to make as memorable an impression as the time I was in the front bar of the Camooweal pub in outback Queensland, and an emu stuck its head through the window. (On a stack of Bibles, this is true). This very morning, I headed straight for the Devils Tower, the prominent geological feature in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. You remember, this thing! You probably won't believe me, but I always suspected this thing was a volcanic intrusion, and so it is.
There was actually some dickhead climbing the thing this morning. I waited as long as I could for the guy to plummet to his death, but I'm a busy man and I couldn't just hang around all day. So it was push west with all haste, as the weather was good, and I wanted to get off those bloody wide open prairies before the wind sprung up to blow me backwards. I could see the Big Horn Mountain range looming in the distance, with clouds massing above, and I knew I had to get across it asap.
My route took me through the Granite Pass, at 9000 ft, not the biggest I have encountered, but some guys I met at the Tower had just come the other way the day before, and had really copped a hammering in a hail storm, so I was a bit apprehensive. It turned out to be a superb ride, cold at the top, but a great road on the way up, perfect road surface, no wind and almost no traffic. If there's one thing I like more than the pure serenity of the mountains, its the howl of the exhaust note of the F650GS as you crack it open in the middle gears, especially with a new set of Tourances. Yahoo! A bit of a rough surface on the way down, and more of those "tar snakes", which I have already learned to hate with a passion, then I'm back on the plains and its hot again! Only these plains looked distinctly drier than on the other side of the Ranges, so I'm buggered if I can work out the geography around here. My intended destination of Cody is pretty much booked out, so I am staying about 50 miles short in the oddly named town of Greybull, no relation to Betty, for the night, and will head to the Yellowstone region tomorrow. Might even catch a rodeo in Cody, named after Buffalo Bill for anyone not born before 1960, it appears the thing to do around these parts.
I was heading for Hot Springs, South Dakota, my jumping off point for the Black Hills. The scenery soon changed to rolling prairies covered in short grass. I don't know whether the cows keep it short, or the wind pushes it over, or if it stops growing all by itself, but there is a hell of a lot of it in Wyoming, and the wind was picking up again. I am really getting sick of the bloody wind, and it seems to pick up some real speed in the afternoon, then die down in the evening. I don't know if it seasonal, or related to the terrain, or what, but it makes riding distinctly unpleasant, not that I'm complaining. Alright, a bit. Here's something you don't see everyday in Australia. Nothing like having your own oil well down on the farm, to supplement the income when beef prices are down, which is .... never. There are quite a few of these dotting the landscape, they remind me of large birds, pterodactyls if you must know, pecking away rhythmically at the landscape. Weird.
So, after being blasted by the afternoon winds yet again as I rode through more of the unremarkable terrain of south east Wyoming, I crossed into South Dakota. All of a sudden, it got hillier, the hills were pointier, and often flanked by pine trees. It looked like a giant park, and was altogether an exceedingly pleasant visual spectacle. And I liked it as well.
I found my motel without any trouble, and got the usual head wobbling greeting from the Indian (subcontinental) behind the desk, who only had to ask me my name four times before I wrote it down for him, tersely I might add, in LARGE letters on a bit of paper, while simultaneously pointing to my name on his computer screen. I'll jump the counter and throttle one of the bastards before this trip is over, I swear.
And speaking of Indians, a quick walk around town and a visit to the supermarket turned up an interesting demographic fact. At first I thought there were a lot of Mexicans in town, but no, they were actually Indians (Native), the biggest concentration I have seen so far. None of them looked particularly happy, or particularly busy for that matter, quite a few of them were clearly drunk, and that didn't stop them getting into their beaten up old cars and driving somewhere, usually at 20 mph. In the supermarket car park, an Indian (Native) guy dropped something while loading groceries into the boot of his car. I picked it up and handed it back to him, and he didn't say a word. Well, the world needs ditch diggers too, pal, but I suspect even that would be too highly skilled for you. By the way, nice country you had. Nothing to do with me, I'm just passing through.
Hot Springs looked like a nice town, with some interesting and substantial buildings, but had clearly fallen on hard times. Quite a few businesses closed up, lots of for sale signs, and I suspect, very few takers. Except perhaps the Indians (subcontinental), who must reckon all their birthdays have come at once in this country.
Pretty soon I was rolling northward, the weather was just perfect, and I reached Custer State Park, where my National Parks Pass wasn't worth diddley squat. Ten bucks later I was stopped at a herd of buffalo, wondering which one of the big, cantankerous bastards was going to kill me first. Probably this one.
Or possibly any of these, take your pick. Eventually I figured if they're busy eating, they were too preoccupied to gore me to death, so I snuck past, but quickly and quietly.
So I survived my first encounter, and the boost to my confidence was immense. I spent quite a while just criss crossing the magnificent landscape of the park, just taking it all in, it really was superb. Here's the stretch through The Needles, not hard to work out how they got the name. Possibly more phallic than needle like, I thought, but let's leave Freud out of it. Rest assured if this was in Australia, it would be an Aboriginal scared site quicker than you could say "Mineral Rights".
I then headed north to check out Mt Rushmore. A bit more splendid scenery on great bike riding roads had me within sight of said mountain. From a few miles away, it looked just like the photos. No surprises there. As I got closer, it became apparent that one has to actually pay to get much closer. Yeah, well I've already seen it, I said to the guy collecting the money, as I made a quick U-turn. This process was repeated a few miles down the road at the Crazy Horse carving, which isn't even finished, still they want people to pay! Well, I didn't want to see either of the things that badly.
I spent quite a while musing over the whole thing. Is it legitimate art to carve something on that scale into an otherwise pristine hillside, or is it environmental vandalism? Let alone charge people to see it. But call it a National Memorial and that makes it ok? There was no shortage of punters lining up to pay the entry fee, so does that make it right? What if it was a carving of a giant buffalo's arse, and its (admittedly impressive) genitalia? I wrestled with this deep philosophical argument while I tried to regain my composure. There are millions of hills, whos going to mind if we just bugger up one of them in the middle of nowhere, in the name of patriotism? Yes, but its so subjective. I happen to like buffalos, why can't I carve a huge buffalo butt on a butte somewhere? What about building a road through the hills (or building anything anywhere, for that matter), tell me that's not eco-raping ? Yes, but we need roads, and so it goes on ad infinitum. Look, what about a quarry? Nobody minds if we wreck a perfectly good hill just to get at the rock, so we can crush it to make pre-stressed concrete bridges and garden gnomes, and other such essentials. So you could actually think of Mt. Rushmore as just another rock quarry, only this time they just took away all the bits that didn't look like a President. Maybe the Indians (native) have the right idea after all, just give up and stay pissed.
Look, here's how I reconciled the whole argument. Here's how I reconcile most things, if you haven't already realised. When in doubt, lampoon! On the way out of Mt Rushmore, I stopped where I wasn't supposed to stop, and took this seldom seen shot of George Washington's profile.
OK, here's a better look.
I reckon it looks less like George and a hell of a lot more like a shot of The Phantom * standing guard over the entrance to the fabulous Skull Cave in the Deep Woods. Am I right, or am I right?
* The Ghost Who Walks, Man Who Cannot Die.
I proceeded further westward, cruising through Custer before crossing back into Wyoming, and sought my evenings lodging in the famous town of Sundance, of Film Festival fame. Yes, there is a statue of Harry Longbaugh in the main street. That's the original Sundance Kid, FYI. There is a lot of history around these parts, no doubt about that, and it really is very interesting. Just as well, because there's bugger all else in Sundance, and I don't blame Harry one little bit for moving to Bolivia. I knew I should have stayed in Custer, but there you go. I did actually see two deer in the main street last night. Neat, but for some reason this failed to make as memorable an impression as the time I was in the front bar of the Camooweal pub in outback Queensland, and an emu stuck its head through the window. (On a stack of Bibles, this is true). This very morning, I headed straight for the Devils Tower, the prominent geological feature in the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind. You remember, this thing! You probably won't believe me, but I always suspected this thing was a volcanic intrusion, and so it is.
There was actually some dickhead climbing the thing this morning. I waited as long as I could for the guy to plummet to his death, but I'm a busy man and I couldn't just hang around all day. So it was push west with all haste, as the weather was good, and I wanted to get off those bloody wide open prairies before the wind sprung up to blow me backwards. I could see the Big Horn Mountain range looming in the distance, with clouds massing above, and I knew I had to get across it asap.
My route took me through the Granite Pass, at 9000 ft, not the biggest I have encountered, but some guys I met at the Tower had just come the other way the day before, and had really copped a hammering in a hail storm, so I was a bit apprehensive. It turned out to be a superb ride, cold at the top, but a great road on the way up, perfect road surface, no wind and almost no traffic. If there's one thing I like more than the pure serenity of the mountains, its the howl of the exhaust note of the F650GS as you crack it open in the middle gears, especially with a new set of Tourances. Yahoo! A bit of a rough surface on the way down, and more of those "tar snakes", which I have already learned to hate with a passion, then I'm back on the plains and its hot again! Only these plains looked distinctly drier than on the other side of the Ranges, so I'm buggered if I can work out the geography around here. My intended destination of Cody is pretty much booked out, so I am staying about 50 miles short in the oddly named town of Greybull, no relation to Betty, for the night, and will head to the Yellowstone region tomorrow. Might even catch a rodeo in Cody, named after Buffalo Bill for anyone not born before 1960, it appears the thing to do around these parts.
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