Charlie’s a Sturgis local, a retired photographer, and in exchange for letting him take my picture with his vintage Stereo Realist 3-D camera, he buys me lunch at One Eyed Jack’s Saloon.

Like all of Sturgis, it’s a fun place where folks from everywhere can be themselves and then some.

As I tuck into a damn fine Black Hills Burger, Charlie almost drops his French dip.

“Hey! There goes Miss Debrie, my junior high English teacher! Didn’t know she’s still alive.”

Charlie stares distantly at the Main Street crowd of bikes and people like he’s seeing stuff that isn’t there. I chomp my burger, unwilling to let him derail my meal.

“The first day of seventh grade,” he says, still looking past me, “she had us write about how we spent our summer vacation. So I chose the time me and my friends saw some beautiful biker ladies posing for a fashion shoot right in front of a school bus downtown during Bike Week. We couldn’t believe our eyes.”

“Ever hook up with some hot biker chick?” I ask.

“Married a good woman,” he says. “Raised two boys and a girl. But no, no biker chicks. I never even saw the magazine ad they were in.”

I finish my burger and order another Jack and Coke, feeling something unexpected. Charlie’s words, they make me think.

“You married, son?” he asks.

“Nah,” I say. “Came close a couple times, but I guess I got a lot to learn.”

Charlie nods.

We part, him with his memories, me with thoughts of what lies ahead. Some lessons uplift you, and some make you question everything.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m walking on Main Street in downtown Sturgis, still buzzed from last night — and still uncertain whether I knocked boots with Joey from Skokie, his old lady, or both.

Three cups of coffee later, I remember that I didn’t go gay. All I did was lay pipe on Joey’s old lady while Joey stood at the foot of the bed and rubbed one out.

Thank God I went down on Mrs. Joey when Joey splattered the wall — or else I’d need intense therapy.

I can’t finish a fourth coffee, so I toss the now-cold styro cup into a trash can and cut on over to Main Street, where I’d parked my bike in front of the Oasis. As I dig out my keys, I see a medium-sized dog with short reddish hair, tail tucked, and looking lost, standing near my bike.

I kneel, hand extended, heart open. The dog sniffs and, with a wag that seems like approval, becomes my partner for the day. We name each other without words. In the wag of a tail and the warmth of a hand, we speak a silent language of trust.

Together, we roam the rally, each spectacle more vivid through the eyes of the other. I laugh more, my soul lighter as we navigate the labyrinth of bikes and people.

Day turns to night, and our bond deepens, lessons whispered in wag and woof. Loyalty isn’t a chain but a choice.

Then we stumble upon a man, eyes frantic, face lined with worry. “Rusty!” he exclaims, recognizing his dog.

I give Rusty one last ear scratch, all smiles, like tuning an old radio and hearing a long-forgotten song. Life’s a curious dance.

Copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon