The guy that air brushed female nipples is gone (Sturgis requires some modesty-you see) but it still can be an adventure in sensory overload. First of all we went to the motorcycle museum showcasing antique, classic, rare and unusual bikes from 1900 on. It was hard for Ron to pick his favorite one but hely really was partial to the classic Indian brand.
Originally Sturgis was built to supply near by Fort Mead with provisions and ladies of the night. We didn't tour Poker Alice's House previously a poker room and brothel that separated many soldiers from their paychecks-but we rode on. Fort Mead is an intact outpost built in 1878 to help control the gold rush when the Black Hills was still Indian land. Lots of old buildings and a neat museum. Can't stay long since Elroy's left in the warm truck-so we rode on.
This tme we stopped at Bear Butte rising 2000 feet above the high plains. We should of guessed it was a special place when we spotted prayer cloths in the trees and heard drums beating and chanting from the top of the mountain. Many tribes consider it a holy mountain even today. Ron told me the Indians are probably getting ready to scalp yeller-haired women. Don't tell him that I didn't believe him Can you believe dogs are not permitted on the trails or mountain. I was hoping when Elroy did his business in the weeds that the spirits weren't watching. Then we rode on again-this time with fingers crossed.
Next to the largest biker bar in the world, Full Throttle (heard location of a TV program). You can't miss this if you're ever in the area. Hugh outdoor arena with some of the most unusal items used as sculptures. The guy at the bar told us it's the best job he ever had. I can imagine why-he's proanably seen more female body parts than an obgyn. We were greeted by the bar mascot-a donkey named Emmett. While I was petting and sweet talking him, Ron nugged me to look down. My eyes got big-very BIG. You won't believe it was giant and long. And thank goodness it went down when I took this picture.
and then we all rode on. . . .
