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(J.S.) South Dakota blows one mean solar wind in July and the Clipper was hurled toward SD's true eye of calm, the Black Hills. First, we would have to pass through a punishing experience in the transmigration of west Kansas into our more northerly route, which we passed through with many a lay-by. The scorching heat and desolate landscape combined to entrance the crew and subdue the Clipper, but always with the underlying faith that there was another side to this state. Acting in true messianic fashion, the Clipper would take us through the firestorm of the midwest and deliver us into higher ground before demanding a day of rest. But dead in Deadwood is better with that triple-digit trial behind us, and stuck inside of Sturgis beats the midwest blues any day. It is an angry Old Testament god of the desert that transforms the lowlands into badlands, leaving an occassional oasis on its margin. The Black Hills, appropriately named, offered temporary shelter from the insidious right wing Christian paranoia that can only thrive in such cruel conditions that now surrounded us like shark infested water. Girded by our faith in the cosmic purpose behind the seemingly random acts of the Clipper, we remained unshaken throughout the hat trick of breakdowns on the road to Sturgis, and in return the Hills would nudge and wink and remove the worries. That would require a few minor exorcisms, one removing my demon of contentedness, facilitated by whisky and a Dutch cigarette --a brew that would also injure our fearless leader - and the other releasing a giant flesh-eating tapeworm from the Clipper's carbeurator. Like that proverbial character to first pick and eat a mushroom from a dung patty, we did all there was to do. We went for a stumble around. Sturgis just two weeks before rally week offers homespun hospitality to the outlaw and nervous tourist alike, and since I look like the former but felt like the latter, it was much appreciated. Later, after further penetrating this pagan outpost, we realized that long ago South Dakota's outlaw culture had commodified its dissent into cheesy tourist crap. But God bless the wicked, for the profane operate under the lusty eye of the pyramid, too. Feeling stupid, we reenter the hateful plains of Your Land, Them as interested in us as the morphing stream of blue-haired neighbors in the RV parks. But supposedly looking familiar to a Black Hill local offers little comfort when supposedly looking familiar to a highway patrolman in Cheyenne, the most troubled town in America. This was truly Dodge, and we were lucky to get the hell out even if it did require the writing of a few bad karmic checks. Still a ten-gallon topped mob of misguided cowboys and meth-heads followed us to the border of colorful Colorado, where at last everything is not Black and White. J.S.
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