A "Backseat" Accounting of the Ride Home from Sturgis '93

(or, "Death Ride from Hell")

Yes, family and friends Tom and I successfully survived the Harley mania of Sturgis '93. Words can't describe the sights and sounds of Sturgis, however, thanks to my multi-talented husband, our adventure is recorded on video for all to see. If you will carefully note as you view the video, however, there is no account of our journey back to Texas; forever referred to as "The Death Ride from Hell". Perhaps if I would have had some insight about our journey home, I could have phoned Kennedy Space Center and inquired about where to purchase high-tech video camera equipment that records at mach speeds. We traveled 1200 miles in a whirlwind record time of 36 hours which included eight hours of sleep, four hours for gasoline stops, and four hours for meals while I sat on an eight inch seat.

Now for those of you who do not possess a male-oriented motorcycle mentality let me explain. "We ride for pride", pride is everything! The bike and its louder is better pipes must have such a shine that it glistens in the moonlight and the way you ride your bike says everything about you. It was on our "Death Ride from Hell" that I swore I would improve upon my motorcycle driving skills if I ever made it home. I suppose my first clue that the Demon of Speed had possessed my beloved was when we hit Highway 90(East) traveling 75 mph on the tilted right side of both tires. The wind was coming out of the southeast at approximately 20 mph which of course was the direction we were headed. I personally felt like one of those little dogs with the bobbing head you used to see on the dashboard of automobiles in the 60's and 70's.

The Captain's need for speed on the "Death Ride from Hell" surpassed all human understanding. It was clear that we had entered the dimension of the "Testosterone Zone". We were traveling so fast that three different times I tried to read a window sticker on a car and each time I failed. I finally conceded to the fact that the human eye can not focus as the neck struggles to resist whiplash.

By the time we entered Nebraska I was certain that I was sitting behind a madman. The Captain who was driving between 70-80 mph would look away from the road and into the eyes of every driver we passed. It was a cross between feeling like the Highway Welcome Wagon and the Harley Police. Not to mention that Tom was beginning to marvel at our collection of dead bugs on the windshield instead of washing them off at every gas stop. I remember giggling to myself as I recalled all the times Tom has said (at our local Harley shops), "Let's check the board and see if a group is going to (wherever) and we'll ride with them." Well, Major News Flash! Riding with a group means staying with the group, not passing them at 80-90 mph which of course we did... several times. And God forbid that someone should pass us because that meant we had to go even faster and pass them. You see, male motorcycle mentality dictates that you must ALWAYS be the leader.

I came to also realize that Harley pilots forget that their Harley mama's stay on the motorcycle by holding on with their knees. As the bike begins to increase in speed a Harley mama will brace herself by squeezing her knees into the side of the pilot's legs and pressing her feet down on the foot pegs. Well, when you're traveling at a speed faster than sound, you tend to remain tense and when you have to maintain a leg spread of eight inches to accommodate the pilot's back rest, you tend to get a little sore. 

Of course, Tom was sensitive to my discomfort and suggested that as we're riding I should straighten out my legs and wrap them around his hips and rest my feet on the gas tank. My response was, "Gee Tom, since I don't have "Gumby" legs, I don't know. Somehow when we're riding a motorcycle down the Interstate at 80 mph, I don't think lifting my legs straight in the air is a good idea. I feel pretty certain that if I don't become airborne, I'm sure to fall to one side of the bike and remain stuck sideways until we stop for gas. But since the back rest has me pinned in anyway, I guess I'll give it a try."

As we reached Oklahoma I (for the first time) had an out of body experience. I now knew what it meant to be a part of the "Testosterone Zone", after all I had been arranging my crotch for two days. On Interstate 35 I swore we had died somewhere and this was hell at its hottest. Since we had thrown caution to the wind I thought why not the back rest too. I began entertaining the thought of lifting "Iron Butt" Heatherington's back rest out of our shared seat and tossing it into one of the 10,000 muddy rivers we kept crossing. However, since my knees had long since lost their strength, I remembered that the back rest was the only thing keeping me wedged in my glove box size seat space, not fit for man nor beast. At one gasoline stop my knees were so sore that I couldn't pull my left leg off the bike. Later when we got home I noticed that I had a huge bruise on the inside of my left leg about two inches from my knee. Imagine that? 

Now, if you think I'm exaggerating about the "Death Ride from Hell", I'm not. Just let me close by saying that Tom did have to buy a new motorcycle battery on Monday. We obviously rode the 1340cc horsepowered battery to death.