“I didn’t know there was a cost,” I say, standing on the stoop with my new biker friends, not wanting to appear ungrateful. “I’m on a road trip and staying in my car to save money. Last night, I was camping in Wyoming, and a man told me this was happening. So I –.”
“Wait! Do you mean to tell me you didn’t know the rally was going on? You just HAPPENED to find out about it?!”
Mustard shirt slaps his friend’s chest and huffs out a heavy laugh, “Well, shit! We plan this ONE week for the ENTIRE year, and you come here on accident.” His laugh and eyeballs ping-ponging to the guys validate that I’ve come to the right place.
That exchange is the opening ceremonies to the next hour of me accepting two half-warm Coors Lights and learning there’s a place called “The Chip.” They won’t say much about it, but what’s obvious is it’s an outdoor concert area where stories stay to die. Then, remembering my goal of wanting a photo souvenir I say, “Hey! Can I get a picture of one of your bikes? I need evidence to show my friends back home!
The unanimous choice is Jason’s bike, a vintage Harley Davidson. With its handlebars propping hands at head height and its constant vibration, Jason laments the pain of it but is also proud of himself for enduring the 1,400-mile ride from California to South Dakota. Especially since some guys trailer their bikes in, he tells me—something he looks down on.
The gang’s exhaustion from the prior night’s festivities at The Chip means they have zero interest in returning there. “Please. Come on; someone take me!” I’m playfully side-eying at Jason, feeling he’s my best chance at a chauffeur due to our closeness in age and the rapport we’ve built.
“No. It’s not for you,” he says with an unexpended force, slamming my idea into an invisible glass door. At the perceived threat, I drop it but feel my energy lowering in disappointment. A moment later, Jason offers a conciliatory alternative: “I’m heading to meet friends. They’re riding in from Deadwood. You can come.”
I take the olive branch, say okay, and a half hour later, we walk into town.
Before leaving on the road trip, my casino friends threw me a party. It wasn’t really for me; it was a reason to party. Party because it’s Friday. Party because it’s Wednesday. Party because Jaclynn’s going on a road trip. Trey provided marinated kalbi steaks, and Cory supplied the jet skis, cocaine, and gorgeous multi-million dollar Puget Sound frontage. The usual characters filled the rest of the cast, including my romantic interest, Travis, who displayed (but I didn’t see) all the red flags a prize bullfighter would drool to have.
I half-run to keep a step behind Jason. Thoughts of what to ask to fill my mind, but after too many one-word answers from him, I give up. While the silence between us is deafening, I push my discomfort aside and focus on Sturgis’ changing residential landscape to brick commercial downtown.
Some counseling sessions hit especially hard. For example, when a woman discussed how she had sacrificed her needs to please her boyfriend. As the years of brokenness and regret flooded down her face, I empathized, knowing I’d done the same.
Going On 40 
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