Ride to Redemption (9 page)

Chapter
14

F
inally,
the four of us were on the road following Highway 20 across the Missouri River
and into Nebraska. My hope was that we could make it to the city of Valentine
before dark. With a few exceptions, last night, not withstanding, I rarely
travel back roads on a bike at night. There are too many walking obstacles, be
it loose cows or other large four legged, horned creatures that play havoc with
a motorcycle, especially their riders.

Cruising
with Gio, actually proved to be quite entertaining. He had mastered the art of
filming; using his video camera with his right hand with his throttle lock
securely in place. Note to self, remind me to show him other uses for his right
hand, now that he has mastered one handed steering.

Gio
would continually zoom past us in the left lane, filming the landscape while
using us as a focal point. Mile rode behind us the entire way, not venturing to
chase Gio and duplicate his antics.

We
arrived in Valentine around 7 p.m. and found the Motel Rains, ranked #1 on my
Google search.

The
Rains was a pleasant surprise, featuring large clean rooms with fast Internet
and offering great BBQ and ice-cold draft in their restaurant. What more could
a man want? I asked myself. Fortunately, the woo-hoo came to mind, again and
again.

“Hey,
baby, how are you holding up? Saddle sore?” I asked.

“I
need a bath,” she grumbled.

“Then
by all means, tell Gio and Mile we’re going to rest up a bit and ask them if
they would like to meet us in the restaurant around eight. Oh, and ask him to
bring his camera.”

She
nodded and did as instructed. I walked her to the room and plotted our day
tomorrow. With Candi soaking in the tub, I calculated our time to Sturgis,
allowing for stops at Wounded Knee and the Badlands beforehand. If we rolled
out by 8 a.m., we should be in Sturgis by 5 p.m. at the latest.

“Hey,
baby?” came this somewhat needy voice from the bathroom. “Want to wash my
back?”

The
hot water must have helped her demeanor. “Woo-hoo,” I replied.

“What
did you say, baby?”

“I
said, ‘sure baby doll, I’ll be right there.’”

Weak-kneed
and all, Candi and I eventually met Gio and Mile two beers after eight o’clock.
“It’s her fault we’re late,” I tattled to our Italian friends.”

“The
bathtub was too small for the two of us,” Candi chirped. “But we made it work!”

“My
bruised knees and lips will attest to that,” I confirmed, not that either one
of them would understand.

Surprisingly,
the more beer we consumed, the better Gio’s English became. By the end of the
evening, I didn’t remember he was Italian. Candi and I munched on the beef
brisket, while Gio and Mile scarped down on the pulled pork. My hat is once
again off to Google for their consistently accurate recommendations.

Gio
and I discussed what we did for a living, while the girls conversed the entire
time in Italian. I learned over the course of the evening that Gio had a
factory in Milan, manufacturing high-end memory-foam pillow-top mattresses and
pillows which he sold all over the world. He came to New York City every three
months to meet with his distributors, but had never ventured further west than
Texas.

“You
live Texas?” he had asked. “What place you like best?”

I
quickly responded with a canned answer and turned my attention toward the
trophy catch on his right. If you need to change the subject, start asking a
man about his conquests. Mile, he proudly told me, was his live-in girlfriend
of five years, and she managed his customer service arm across Italy, France
and Germany.

“I
bet she gives great customer service, Gio,” I laughed, slapping him on the
shoulder as Candi choked on her last bite.

As
the evening wound down, I explained our route for tomorrow. I almost
immediately realized that nobody cared at this point, so I grabbed Candi’s arm,
and said goodnight.

“If
you don’t mind,” expressed Candi, “I’ll be along in a minute. I want to bounce
something off Gio that Mile wants to do on this trip.”

Before
I could say yeah or nay, she launched off into excited Italian rhetoric.
Myself, I gritted my teeth all the way to the room.

I
hate her Italian conversations, which continually leave me in the dark.

I
never heard Candi return, but
 
did
awake at five in the morning to feel her snuggled next to me. Slipping out of
the bed quietly, I dressed and took off to watch the sunrise as I walked along
the streets of Valentine; no Starbucks here, unfortunately. I was glad I
brought my own black and green tea with me back at the room, but I missed it
while walking. I shortened my walk and meandered back to the room to awaken my
sexy, secretive princess.

Dressed,
packed and ready to go by 7:30, Candi and I sat quietly outside on the patio,
sipping our teas and waiting for our new friends to roll out.

“D,
every day I feel wanted around you. Even with Mile ogling you, you never have
once given her more than a passing glance.”

It
was nice to hear pleasant words coming from her again. “You fill my cup,
baby…way over the top. There is no room in my head or my heart for anyone else,
but you right now, right here.” Although I meant what I said, I must admit that
I did vaguely remember Vic in that instant. Our recent arguments and secrets
had made things a little less bubbly at this point, but I was still very much
enchanted with my mysterious girl. I really think I could fall in love with
her, but we have a few thousand things to discuss before my little brain can
wrap my head around it all.

Leaving
Candi to finish tidying up the room, I helped Gio secure his bags, while he
strapped down Mile’s. It would have made packing easier if the Harley dealer
had fitted both their bikes with full-dresser compartment bags. I asked if he’d
thought of it.

“This
Mile first ride by self,” confessed Gio. “Bags make heavy bike — no
comfortable. But me ship clothes to Bozeman to help. We go after Sturgis.”

“Bozeman,
Montana,” I pondered aloud, knowing that we, too, would pass through there soon
enough.

Heading
north on Highway 83 out of Valentine, I estimated we would make Wounded Knee in
two hours, in spite of Gio’s continued antics with the camera. After we crossed
the state line, we entered into the first of two Indian Reservations we would
come across today. Abandoned cars and dilapidated buildings littered the
desolate landscape. The white man did the Indians no favors by forcing them to
live in these locales. Of course, I don’t suppose the white man left these cars
and junk all over the place.

“I
wonder how many manage to get off the Reservation,” said Candi, echoing my
thoughts, exactly. It seemed like some sort of desert slum here in the middle
of nowhere. It was a sad place — one where we chose not to spend time.

Turning
left on Highway 18 in Mission, SD, we headed west to Wounded Knee, located within
the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Being a National Landmark, I hoped to find a
memorial similar to Little Big Horn to share with our Italian friends. Boy was
I wrong. The first evidence we encountered that announced we had arrived was a
double sided, 8’x16’ graffiti-laden sign erected alongside a wide place in the
road.

Stopping
to read the historical significance of this place, Gio pulled out a guidebook
and after looking up his notes, announced there was a graveyard and museum that
he wanted to see. “Good luck with that, after seeing how this is maintained, I
can only imagine what the rest looks like.”

Driving
into Wounded Knee, we found the museum closed and the cemetery intact, but
small and relatively un-kept. “Sorry guys,” I said to my riding crew, “My guess
is that you have to be on the winning side of a war, to get a
government-subsidized memorial.”

The
only buildings in the entire town that looked adequately maintained were the
schools and Indian Affairs offices. “Sadly,” I confided to Candi, “This is our
tax dollars at work.”

Even
with the desolation of the place, Gio still filmed, taking in the cemetery and
all the dilapidated houses that surrounded it. “Why are you filming all this?”

“Just
to remind me to never be on the losing side.”

He
does have a point, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief.

We
mounted up and made our way through the Pine Ridge Reservation and home of the
Oglala Sioux Tribe, heading northwest toward the Badlands. “Commerce in any
form has never existed here.”

“Out
of sight, out of mind,” Candi replied.

A
large portion of the Badlands National Park is located inside the northern edge
of the Pine Ridge Reservation. But, as best as I could tell, everything built
by the Park Service, such as the welcome center, the store and restaurant were
all located off the Reservation.

“What’s
up with that?” I asked Candi. “At least if they had built these facilities on
the Reservation, it might have created jobs and opportunities.

“This
has really upset you, hasn’t it?” consoled Candi, caressing my shoulder.

“I
hate it when those who have take advantage of those who have not,” I muttered
defiantly.

Turning
my thoughts to the road ahead, I spoke up to Candi. “From what I remember of
the Bad Lands, it’s about like driving on the moon. It’s a vast wasteland where
only the strong survive,” I reminded her.

“And
the smart,” she replied.

Despite
the solemn quiet of this region, vast dry washes extend over miles and miles,
offering all the colors of the rainbow in the exposed minerals cut through the
earthen veins. Gio has yet to fail in capturing every color on film.

We
throttled on past the Bad Lands and I stopped in Scenic, SD, just outside the
Badlands boundary. It’s really just another wide place in the road. I motioned
for Gio and Mile to get off their bikes and stretch. “We can go east through
more of the park and wind up at the famous Wall Drugs on I-90, or we can
continue west where we can have a late lunch in Farmington.

“What
is Wall Drugs?” Mile asked in broken English.

“It’s
a famous tourist trap in the middle of nowhere,” I replied, before realizing
neither Mile nor Gio knew what a tourist trap was.

“Candi,
please explain to our Italian friends about tourists traps.

“Gladly,”
she replied, while launching into excited Italian once again. I was greatly
relieved when Mile made the decision to opt for the late lunch. So we soon
saddled up and continued our ride, looking forward to a sandwich and a longer
stretch from our bikes.

Subway
never looked so good, as my co-rider tapped me on the shoulder to look at their
billboard announcing $5 foot longs.

“Five
miles ahead, D”

I
pulled into the parking lot with Gio and Mile in tow. Gio proudly exclaimed,
“Good choice, D, we have these in Italy, too. Did you have Subway in Texas
where you lived?”

Gio
must be confused to no end. Either that or he really wants me to be from Texas.

“Gio,
yes, we have a Subway where I live, in Tennessee, not Texas.”

“It’s
an hour or so to Sturgis from here, depending on traffic,” I announced, as we
finished our lunch. “Gio and Mile, you are welcome to join us at the campground
tonight for the concert or we can meet up tomorrow.”

“Excuse
me, D. How far are the presidents’ faces from here?”

“You
mean Mt. Rushmore?”

“Yes,
I think. Mile wants to see their faces today, if possible.”

“No
problem, Mile. It, too, is about an hour away with traffic. You two can head
that way, while we take in our concert.”

“Candi,
please find out where they’re staying tonight and get Gio’s phone number, while
I call and confirm our own reservations in Deadwood.”

Speaking
to no one and anyone, I went on describing the history of Deadwood. It’s the
epitome of the old west, with Boot Hill and the likes of Calamity Jane and Wild
Bill Hickok buried there. This entire town almost died in the 1970’s, but it
was resurrected when the town voted to bring back casino gambling. That single
move placed Deadwood back on the map — and quite profitability, too.

After
some small talk, Gio and Mile headed southwest, and Mile and I headed
northwest. Candi said that they too were staying in Deadwood, but at a private
home. “Just how did they manage that?” I asked aloud, while answering my own
question. “Maybe his mattress business is just that good.”

We
rolled into Sturgis proper shortly before 5 p.m. where Candi witnessed for her
very first time, tens of thousands of leather-clad bikers, many sporting attire
similar to our sexy leathers adorning us on our first night on the bike.

“I
guess you didn’t make up the chaps and thong ride just for me, did you, D?”

“Maybe
not, baby, but it was my fantasy to share it with you. You have to admit, it
was a fun gig!” Smiling, I continued, “I bet no one even knows what a BOA is
and how to use it as good as we do!”