Generally trips to Sturgis are some of the more relaxing times in life and the most fun, but I was grinding my teeth. I looked forward to crawling into the sack and forgetting the dinner conversation.

The next morning we rolled out of Mammoth after taking Veronica on a short tour of the mountain since she's an avid skier. Our first stop was in Carson, Nevada. We stopped downtown for gas and I made a call to Ron Paugh of Paughco who is based there. I've known Ron for 30 years and recently built a desk for Little John Buttera using one of his famous springers and rigid frames. Agent Zebra's bike was built in a Paughco Softail and the rigid we are planning to use to build art master Jon Towle's bike is based on a Paughco Sportster rigid. While I was on the phone, a strange looking Honda pulled into the gas station and we recognized the bizarre rider from every bike event in the country. It was Blue Light Special Gypsy. He was on his way to Sturgis when he discovered that he'd left town without his daily medication. Almost 1,000 miles out, he was forced to turn around and head home.

We rolled north of Carson to Reno, where we met with one of the doctor's clients and retired golf enthusiast Don at the Atlantis Casino for lunch. Rolling out of Reno on a two-lane highway, the wind blew sand in our faces and traffic turned ugly. While we were passing a caravan of Winnebagos, one of them kicked up the bumper and rubber molding off a car and the scrap iron and rubber strips were tossed in our lane. Cars following the wobbling Winnebago swerved and slammed on their brakes. We were like soldiers dodging bullets as we ducked the onslaught and scooted past the mess. Some 60 miles out, we pulled off in a field at the 1903 Termo Sage Brush Saloon.

The gas station closed five years ago after it was found that groundwater in the area was contaminated. The bartender at the Sage Brush, who wore a Wal-Mart paisley shirt and ball cap, informed us that the temps drop to 40 below in the winter and the winds reach as high as 135 mph. His lamb chop sideburns, broken teeth and red nose told us that his stories were either bullshit or based on a life in the woods and raw whiskey. The bar and the surrounding buildings were Twilight Zone compatible. They could have been from 80 years ago without batting an eye except for the candy bars alongside the counter. We ordered beers but were forced to go around back to drink them. The bar was older than the store and equally nostalgic with the walls scattered in old farming tools and ads from the '30s and '40s, Of course the old gent in the brown polyester pants had to come through the store to the bar to monitor our drinking habits and continue his diatribe on the government destruction of the farming industry and the recession forced on the local citizens.

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