For me, the phrase "rolling thunder" conjures scenes of prairies with dark towering clouds. The thunder begins far away, rolling down the grasslands to envelope me. I had forgotten the connection of this phrase to motorcycles.
Roll In The Deep
My husband and I had taken the bus to Billings, Montana. There we rented a car to explore that amazing landscape bordered by Billings, the Wyoming Medicine Wheel, Graybull, and the Devil's Tower. We were to stay in the KOA campground at the base of the Devil's Tower. Our plan was to drench ourselves in the vast silence of this magical place, feel the earth energy, and perhaps do some meditation. Unthinkingly,we arrived there the first weekend of August. The first week of August, however, is the week of the famous "Sturgis Run," an international "homecoming" for everyone who owns a motorcycle capable of the trip, and in particular, for every Harley Davidson on the planet. I saw our meditative vacation crumbling around us as countless motorcycles followed us into the camp.
This article is about Roll In The DeepAfter a while of stunned sorrow, watching my plans of meditation and silence sift through my fingers like sand, I became curious about the experience before me.
"Rolling thunder" took on a whole new meaning that weekend.
This new thunder started gently around 7:30 AM with the first bike --roused from its rest to an idle, warming in the early sun. This first bike seemed to call to the other bikes in the campground, and they, too, awakened with their low thunder. The thunder increased as the campers awoke, packed up, and rode out of the park in pairs and groups, leaving their spaces to those rolling in to claim them. And they did come, and they did come. Those who didn't come to the camp ground itself, pulled into the parking lot in front of it. They parked four to a slot. The slots quickly filled and spilled over, forming groups. The groups swelled and merged, leaving only narrow passages for careful foot traffic. The riders played in the supply tents, the old-time photo shop, the trading post, and the eateries of the camp. Some got a photo of themselves in a Blue Angels Jet parked there. Bikes pulled in and bikes pulled out, and bikes drove by in both directions. From the dawn awakening, the thunder continued unbroken.
The sound was deep and constant, permeating the huge landscape of the area. My chest vibrated just behind my heart. Thunder filled the air, wrapping around the Tower, flowing across the grasses of the low hills, pushing back the vast silence of the region. Even the ever-present wind seemed to acknowledge the supremacy of the thunder.
I found myself releasing my initial resistance. Surrendering to the sound, I enjoyed its throaty power. I bathed in its current, drifting in eddies, surging and slowing withing the rhythm of the endless bikes. Letting go, I simply existed in the experience. I was experiencing my vacation in a whole new way, a way I could never have planned, and was loving it.
The bikes kept coming: in groups, two by two, or alone. Clumping like cold bees, they swarmed every historic marker, every lookout point, and every rest stop, filling each one past its capacity. The thunder continued as they flowed in, negotiating, adjusting, giving way to or taking space from one another. The roads were black with bikes, horizon to horizon. The occasional orange or yellow, turquoise or green bike leapt like lightning against the blackness.
The endless riders all knew one another, somehow. They seemed to have a standard of behavior. I heard no arguments, no loud disclaimers; just warm welcomes, road trip stories, and gentle advice. In the sea of ten thousand bikes, I saw only one that was dirty. Like cowboys with good horses, the riders cared for their mounts. The bikes were brushed, polished, fed and nurtured throughout the ride, especially at night. Bikes were parked carefully, wiped down, and secured. Did I hear one rider murmur to his ride as he covered it for the night? Did I see another gently stroke his ride on its gas tank?
The evening light lengthened the shadows. As camping spaces were negotiated, bikers settled into the landscape with their rides. Voices grew easy and slow over the campfires. The thunder quieted, accentuated by an occasional solo rider out in the dark, pursuing a journey all his own. In the night, as the stars came out to play across the sky, the imposing presence of the Devil's Tower could again be heard in all the silence.
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