Bike Week
- sherrycopley
- May 24
- 2 min read
Damn, what a ride....
Bike week 2020. This wasn’t just a trip. It was a full-blown, iron-horse pilgrimage. We clocked serious miles, chewed up highway, and soaked in the kind of freedom you can’t bottle. Wind in our faces, engines roaring, and enough horsepower to shake the Black Hills.
Blacktop, Rock, and Glory
The Black Hills were nothing short of stunning. One minute we're cruising through pine and granite, the next we're staring down Mount Rushmore. It hits different when you roll up on it with your crew — no tour buses, no filters, just raw American history carved in stone.
Then there’s Devils Tower — this massive beast just punches through the ground like it’s daring you to question it. We rolled up, killed the engines, and let the silence hit. Unreal.
The Ride Is the Reason
Landmarks aside, the best part was the ride itself. Miles of open road, tight curves through forest passes, and long stretches where it’s just you and the machine. That kind of quiet clears your head real quick. It’s therapy — no small talk, no BS — just throttle, grit, and focus.
Good Whiskey, Loud Bars, and Solid Folks
After grinding it out on the road, we found our way into some damn good bars in and around Sturgis — places with soul. No fancy cocktails, just whiskey poured neat and music turned up. The kind of joints where the bartender doesn’t ask twice and the regulars nod instead of talk.
We raised a few glasses to the road behind us and swapped stories only the road can make. Some true, some... let’s call them “refined.” Either way, the whiskey was strong, the laughs were real, and the night rolled on like a V-twin on fresh pavement.
T-Shirts & Stories That Stick
Picked up a couple shirts that say it all. One’s an inside joke with the crew that just reads, “Fuck You, Bob.” Yeah, he knows why.
The other? A shirt with “Harney’s Peak” across the front — my last name. Pretty wild seeing it up there, even if they changed the name later because of the history behind it. Not proud of the past, but for a minute, having a peak with my name on it felt badass. Glad I snagged the shirt before they pulled it.
This Trip? Legendary.
Bottom line — this wasn’t a vacation. It was a mission. Open roads, tight brotherhood, hard rides, and the kind of memories that go down smoother than a glass of good whiskey.
Back home now, gear scattered across the garage, helmet still dusty, and I’m already thinking about the next run.
Ride hard. Stay sharp. And pour one for the road.