Ride to Redemption

by D. J. Wilson

  Mile nodded in approval, while Candi was inadvertently shaking her head no but not saying anything. I found myself wondering why she was so disheartened with the idea. Plus, her whole change of color and strange look a while ago was also tugging at my imagination. What’s up with that? And what’s up with two Italians trying to find their way to Sturgis, via the back roads? If I was far from home and had found a seasoned rider along my travels … I’d ask them to join the ride, too!

  I immediately looked to Candi, pondering her odd motives.

  “It’s your call. I’m okay with them tagging along, if you are. Besides, since you speak Italian so well, you could translate when the need arises.”

  If looks could kill, somebody in this group of three would be dead. Candi was purposely-staring Gio and Mile down, right before my eyes. I was perplexed. Bad karma?

  “Let me talk to Gio outside,” slammed Candi, abruptly getting up and motioning him with her forefinger to follow her out the door.

  Now I’m pissed. She must know this unlikely pair. No way does this sort of thing just happen. Nothing about any of it added up — not to my satisfaction, anyway.

  Through the plate glass window, I could see Candi poking her finger repeatedly into his chest. I could tell by her animated gestures, that she was laying down some sort of law. Looking at Mile, I wondered if she had any idea what was going on. She just shook her head sideways as if to say, don’t ask me.

  And I didn’t.

  Within two minutes, certain calm resonated between them, and Candi marched through the door defiant. Gio, on the other hand, seemed whipped — his large stature sauntering along behind her with his tail between his legs.

  “What was all that about?” I practically blurted.

  “I’ll tell you, but not here,” she snapped. “Walk me to the bathroom.”

  I did, just as I was directed, standing just outside the two bathrooms, with my arms crossed and my brow lowered — a considerably different posture than little-big man, biker dude.

  “He’s an arrogant, Italian SOB!” she began. “He gets his way in Italy because of his family name and assumes he will do the same here. I set him straight. If he and his young filly ride along with us, they will follow your lead … period.”

  “Okay … I’m with you so far. Just how did you deduce all that in the last fifteen minutes of your very first conversation with him?” I expected a thoroughly off-the-wall answer.

  “It’s a long story, D,” she said. “I will tell you, I promise. But trust me — we don’t have time to go into right now.”

  “Bull-crap,” I chided. “I don’t need a butt-load of problems on this journey, Candi. Something about this is totally twisted and not in a good way.”

  “Just call it Candi’s intuition, D. Gio is paying for everything, by the way, starting now. As long as he and Mile ride with us, he pays, period. Let's call it payment for your services as a tour guide, as well as mine, as a translator.”

  “This is bull crap, and I’m not buying it. You know these people. You never said his last name, either. That would add some relevancy to this entire convoluted conversation. Spill!”

  “It’s complicated,” Candi confessed, shaking her head and pouting. She pressed her boobs up against my chest and said it again. “It’s complicated, D.”

  “Mr. Gio Complicated and your tatas both have some explaining to do. This isn’t over, Candi, and you damn well know it. Right now, we ride. Later, both of those boobs, along with your lips will talk.”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Happy,” she mimicked, wrinkling her nose and upper lip. “You have a few secrets of your own. And you know what? I bet you’re none too eager to throw them all out on the table just yet! So, are we gonna ride or stand here and play Truth-or-Dare?”

  Damn it, I hate it when she’s right. “We ride.”

  “Great. I’ll go get the Italian tourists.”

  Chapter 14

  Finally, the four of us were on the road following Highway 20 across the Missouri River and into Nebraska. My hope was that we could make it to the city of Valentine before dark. With a few exceptions, last night, not withstanding, I rarely travel back roads on a bike at night. There are too many walking obstacles, be it loose cows or other large four legged, horned creatures that play havoc with a motorcycle, especially their riders.

  Cruising with Gio, actually proved to be quite entertaining. He had mastered the art of filming; using his video camera with his right hand with his throttle lock securely in place. Note to self, remind me to show him other uses for his right hand, now that he has mastered one handed steering.

  Gio would continually zoom past us in the left lane, filming the landscape while using us as a focal point. Mile rode behind us the entire way, not venturing to chase Gio and duplicate his antics.

  We arrived in Valentine around 7 p.m. and found the Motel Rains, ranked #1 on my Google search.

  The Rains was a pleasant surprise, featuring large clean rooms with fast Internet and offering great BBQ and ice-cold draft in their restaurant. What more could a man want? I asked myself. Fortunately, the woo-hoo came to mind, again and again.

  “Hey, baby, how are you holding up? Saddle sore?” I asked.

  “I need a bath,” she grumbled.

  “Then by all means, tell Gio and Mile we’re going to rest up a bit and ask them if they would like to meet us in the restaurant around eight. Oh, and ask him to bring his camera.”

  She nodded and did as instructed. I walked her to the room and plotted our day tomorrow. With Candi soaking in the tub, I calculated our time to Sturgis, allowing for stops at Wounded Knee and the Badlands beforehand. If we rolled out by 8 a.m., we should be in Sturgis by 5 p.m. at the latest.

  “Hey, baby?” came this somewhat needy voice from the bathroom. “Want to wash my back?”

  The hot water must have helped her demeanor. “Woo-hoo,” I replied.

  “What did you say, baby?”

  “I said, ‘sure baby doll, I’ll be right there.’”

  Weak-kneed and all, Candi and I eventually met Gio and Mile two beers after eight o’clock. “It’s her fault we’re late,” I tattled to our Italian friends.”

  “The bathtub was too small for the two of us,” Candi chirped. “But we made it work!”

  “My bruised knees and lips will attest to that,” I confirmed, not that either one of them would understand.

  Surprisingly, the more beer we consumed, the better Gio’s English became. By the end of the evening, I didn’t remember he was Italian. Candi and I munched on the beef brisket, while Gio and Mile scarped down on the pulled pork. My hat is once again off to Google for their consistently accurate recommendations.

  Gio and I discussed what we did for a living, while the girls conversed the entire time in Italian. I learned over the course of the evening that Gio had a factory in Milan, manufacturing high-end memory-foam pillow-top mattresses and pillows which he sold all over the world. He came to New York City every three months to meet with his distributors, but had never ventured further west than Texas.

  “You live Texas?” he had asked. “What place you like best?”

  I quickly responded with a canned answer and turned my attention toward the trophy catch on his right. If you need to change the subject, start asking a man about his conquests. Mile, he proudly told me, was his live-in girlfriend of five years, and she managed his customer service arm across Italy, France and Germany.

  “I bet she gives great customer service, Gio,” I laughed, slapping him on the shoulder as Candi choked on her last bite.

  As the evening wound down, I explained our route for tomorrow. I almost immediately realized that nobody cared at this point, so I grabbed Candi’s arm, and said goodnight.

  “If you don’t mind,” expressed Candi, “I’ll be along in a minute. I want to bounce something off Gio that Mile wants to do on this trip.”

  Before I could say yeah or nay, she launched off into excited Italian rhetoric. Myself, I gritted m
y teeth all the way to the room.

  I hate her Italian conversations, which continually leave me in the dark.

  I never heard Candi return, but did awake at five in the morning to feel her snuggled next to me. Slipping out of the bed quietly, I dressed and took off to watch the sunrise as I walked along the streets of Valentine; no Starbucks here, unfortunately. I was glad I brought my own black and green tea with me back at the room, but I missed it while walking. I shortened my walk and meandered back to the room to awaken my sexy, secretive princess.

  Dressed, packed and ready to go by 7:30, Candi and I sat quietly outside on the patio, sipping our teas and waiting for our new friends to roll out.

  “D, every day I feel wanted around you. Even with Mile ogling you, you never have once given her more than a passing glance.”

  It was nice to hear pleasant words coming from her again. “You fill my cup, baby…way over the top. There is no room in my head or my heart for anyone else, but you right now, right here.” Although I meant what I said, I must admit that I did vaguely remember Vic in that instant. Our recent arguments and secrets had made things a little less bubbly at this point, but I was still very much enchanted with my mysterious girl. I really think I could fall in love with her, but we have a few thousand things to discuss before my little brain can wrap my head around it all.

  Leaving Candi to finish tidying up the room, I helped Gio secure his bags, while he strapped down Mile’s. It would have made packing easier if the Harley dealer had fitted both their bikes with full-dresser compartment bags. I asked if he’d thought of it.

  “This Mile first ride by self,” confessed Gio. “Bags make heavy bike — no comfortable. But me ship clothes to Bozeman to help. We go after Sturgis.”

  “Bozeman, Montana,” I pondered aloud, knowing that we, too, would pass through there soon enough.

  Heading north on Highway 83 out of Valentine, I estimated we would make Wounded Knee in two hours, in spite of Gio’s continued antics with the camera. After we crossed the state line, we entered into the first of two Indian Reservations we would come across today. Abandoned cars and dilapidated buildings littered the desolate landscape. The white man did the Indians no favors by forcing them to live in these locales. Of course, I don’t suppose the white man left these cars and junk all over the place.

  “I wonder how many manage to get off the Reservation,” said Candi, echoing my thoughts, exactly. It seemed like some sort of desert slum here in the middle of nowhere. It was a sad place — one where we chose not to spend time.

  Turning left on Highway 18 in Mission, SD, we headed west to Wounded Knee, located within the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Being a National Landmark, I hoped to find a memorial similar to Little Big Horn to share with our Italian friends. Boy was I wrong. The first evidence we encountered that announced we had arrived was a double sided, 8’x16’ graffiti-laden sign erected alongside a wide place in the road.

  Stopping to read the historical significance of this place, Gio pulled out a guidebook and after looking up his notes, announced there was a graveyard and museum that he wanted to see. “Good luck with that, after seeing how this is maintained, I can only imagine what the rest looks like.”

  Driving into Wounded Knee, we found the museum closed and the cemetery intact, but small and relatively un-kept. “Sorry guys,” I said to my riding crew, “My guess is that you have to be on the winning side of a war, to get a government-subsidized memorial.”

  The only buildings in the entire town that looked adequately maintained were the schools and Indian Affairs offices. “Sadly,” I confided to Candi, “This is our tax dollars at work.”

  Even with the desolation of the place, Gio still filmed, taking in the cemetery and all the dilapidated houses that surrounded it. “Why are you filming all this?”

  “Just to remind me to never be on the losing side.”

  He does have a point, I thought, shaking my head in disbelief.

  We mounted up and made our way through the Pine Ridge Reservation and home of the Oglala Sioux Tribe, heading northwest toward the Badlands. “Commerce in any form has never existed here.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” Candi replied.

  A large portion of the Badlands National Park is located inside the northern edge of the Pine Ridge Reservation. But, as best as I could tell, everything built by the Park Service, such as the welcome center, the store and restaurant were all located off the Reservation.

  “What’s up with that?” I asked Candi. “At least if they had built these facilities on the Reservation, it might have created jobs and opportunities.

  “This has really upset you, hasn’t it?” consoled Candi, caressing my shoulder.

  “I hate it when those who have take advantage of those who have not,” I muttered defiantly.

  Turning my thoughts to the road ahead, I spoke up to Candi. “From what I remember of the Bad Lands, it’s about like driving on the moon. It’s a vast wasteland where only the strong survive,” I reminded her.

  “And the smart,” she replied.

  Despite the solemn quiet of this region, vast dry washes extend over miles and miles, offering all the colors of the rainbow in the exposed minerals cut through the earthen veins. Gio has yet to fail in capturing every color on film.

  We throttled on past the Bad Lands and I stopped in Scenic, SD, just outside the Badlands boundary. It’s really just another wide place in the road. I motioned for Gio and Mile to get off their bikes and stretch. “We can go east through more of the park and wind up at the famous Wall Drugs on I-90, or we can continue west where we can have a late lunch in Farmington.

  “What is Wall Drugs?” Mile asked in broken English.

  “It’s a famous tourist trap in the middle of nowhere,” I replied, before realizing neither Mile nor Gio knew what a tourist trap was.

  “Candi, please explain to our Italian friends about tourists traps.

  “Gladly,” she replied, while launching into excited Italian once again. I was greatly relieved when Mile made the decision to opt for the late lunch. So we soon saddled up and continued our ride, looking forward to a sandwich and a longer stretch from our bikes.

  Subway never looked so good, as my co-rider tapped me on the shoulder to look at their billboard announcing $5 foot longs.

  “Five miles ahead, D”

  I pulled into the parking lot with Gio and Mile in tow. Gio proudly exclaimed, “Good choice, D, we have these in Italy, too. Did you have Subway in Texas where you lived?”

  Gio must be confused to no end. Either that or he really wants me to be from Texas.

  “Gio, yes, we have a Subway where I live, in Tennessee, not Texas.”

  “It’s an hour or so to Sturgis from here, depending on traffic,” I announced, as we finished our lunch. “Gio and Mile, you are welcome to join us at the campground tonight for the concert or we can meet up tomorrow.”

  “Excuse me, D. How far are the presidents’ faces from here?”

  “You mean Mt. Rushmore?”

  “Yes, I think. Mile wants to see their faces today, if possible.”

  “No problem, Mile. It, too, is about an hour away with traffic. You two can head that way, while we take in our concert.”

  “Candi, please find out where they’re staying tonight and get Gio’s phone number, while I call and confirm our own reservations in Deadwood.”

  Speaking to no one and anyone, I went on describing the history of Deadwood. It’s the epitome of the old west, with Boot Hill and the likes of Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok buried there. This entire town almost died in the 1970’s, but it was resurrected when the town voted to bring back casino gambling. That single move placed Deadwood back on the map — and quite profitability, too.

  After some small talk, Gio and Mile headed southwest, and Mile and I headed northwest. Candi said that they too were staying in Deadwood, but at a private home. “Just how did they manage that?” I asked aloud, while answering my own question. �
��Maybe his mattress business is just that good.”

  We rolled into Sturgis proper shortly before 5 p.m. where Candi witnessed for her very first time, tens of thousands of leather-clad bikers, many sporting attire similar to our sexy leathers adorning us on our first night on the bike.

  “I guess you didn’t make up the chaps and thong ride just for me, did you, D?”

  “Maybe not, baby, but it was my fantasy to share it with you. You have to admit, it was a fun gig!” Smiling, I continued, “I bet no one even knows what a BOA is and how to use it as good as we do!”

  Forty-five minutes later, through stop and walk traffic, we made it to the campground. I found will-call and surprisingly enough, there were two backstage passes waiting for us along with a phone number to call if we arrived before seven.

  “What do you want to do, young lady? Call them or check into the hotel and come back later?”

  “Call them now. I’ve waited almost two days to meet these guys and their band.” She minced no words this time!

  I called the number but it went to voice mail. “I tried, baby,” I said, looking once again into her disappointed eyes. “Let’s go to the hotel and come back tonight.”

  Just as we got on the bike, my phone rang. It was Billy, and he proceeded to tell me where to find him. “Go behind the stage area,” he directed, “and pull up to the VIP section where the buses are. I’ll tell the guards you’re coming. Did your sweetie make it?”

  “Yes sir,” I replied.

  “Is she with you now?”

  “Right behind me.”

  Billy’s persistence continued. “Hand her the phone.”

  “Here, baby. Billy wants to talk to you.”

  “Hi, Billy, thank you for the tickets; I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet up with you in Sioux City.”

  “No problem,” said Billy, “You’re going to meet us in just a few. I just wanted to tell you, I don’t know what spell you’ve cast over D, but when he talked about you the way he did, all of us wanted to take you away from him. He’s a lucky guy … and you, my dear, are fortunate to have him.