time I was growing up was that it was a sleepy town that seemed to have more than its share of cold weather and odd people .
I spent part of my youth riding horseback all over the hills . My great uncles and dad planned annual family trail rides for me and my cousins . Each year we camped somewhere along General Custer ’ s expedition route . Finding 100-year-old horseshoes and spent ammunition casings along the trail were a regular occurrence .
One summer I remember exploring a dozen large rock piles on the edges of Whitewood Creek that my dad said were “ Chinese diggings ”, remnants of the gold explorations of Chinese immigrants during the gold rush . On the slopes of the hills around Sturgis we hiked past pairs of small rock piles interlaced with rotting timbers that my father explained were crumbling equestrian jumps that the 7th cavalry used for training .
My family rode horses , not motorcycles . Even my growing up in Sturgis , home to the worldfamous motorcycle rally , didn ’ t spark an immediate desire to ride a motorcycle . But it made them feel familiar to me . So , it was a natural transition to move from riding a fourwheeler while doing ranch chores and snowmobiles in the hills in wintertime , to riding a motorcycle . It ’ s not surprising that the first bike I owned was a Harley-Davidson , considering my birthplace and annual exposure to the throngs of Harley riders coming to the Sturgis Rally . I found it fascinating to watch the sea of humanity pouring into my little hometown . They seemed so wild . It wasn ’ t the partying or loud pipes that appealed to me . It was the sense of freedom that everyone exuded and the travels I imagined they ’ d enjoyed .
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