Originally Posted by
Biker395
Yup. The ride across South Dakota was mind-numbingly flat in a lot of places. But not without it's charms.
Like the town of Interior, right at the edge of the Badlands. Our accommodations for the night were to be at a KOA about 3 miles up the road. But since it was a very hot day and I like to chat up the locals, my friend and I took a detour before arriving in camp to do some elbow exercises at the local saloon. This one ... the Wagon Wheel ... looked promising.
Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure this was the ONLY saloon in town. Anyway, so we walk in, sit down, and have a couple cold ones. The bartender is a friendly guy and we have a nice chat about whatever seemed appropriate. We were there about an hour when he eyes me over and asks:
"So ... you want to ride Radar?"
Kind of an odd question. I answer with another.
"Who or what is Radar?"
<to be continued>
Jeez ... well is this a microcosm of what it means to be 50+ ... I forgot to finish the story. Here we go ...
"Whaaal ... Radar's my pet steer."
Steer? Surely I heard wrong. I asked for clarification.
"You want me to ride a real bull?"
"Waaaal ... Radar ain't no bull, he's a steer. Whassa matter ... Dontcha know the difference between a bull and a steer?"
I felt embarrassed to say it, but ...
"Would it surprise you if I said I didn't? Remember, I'm from Southern California. We don't have a lot of either roaming around."
"Waaaal, a steer ain't got no balls."
I finally got the picture.
"Guess that makes them a trifle more docile, doesn't it?"
"Sure does. So whaddya say ... wanna ride Radar?"
Now remember that I already had a couple of drinks under my belt. And I am someone who likes to sample local color as much as possible. And if it's a docile little steer, how bad could it be? I looked at Cynthia. She shook her head as if to say "Don't do it." That settled it. I set my beer down and got off my barstool.
"Yea, sure. Let's go ride him. Where is he? Out back?"
"Waaaal, you don't need to go anywhere ... I'll bring him in here."
Now I really thought I was hearing things. I've seen a lot of things, but I've never seen a steer inside a bar before. So what's the joke? Is it some kind of midget steer? He assured me that all was OK, so I sat down and waited for him to return.
And here was Radar. A flippin HUGE steer, led by a rope and complete with longhorns. They looked like they belonged on an Eldorado in a Texas retirement home. They were so wide and the doorway so narrow, Radar had to wag his head sideways to get through. The amazing thing was that no one else in the bar seemed to pay him no mind. And he
was absolutely docile. No snorting and pawing ... he just clop-clopped over to the bar and waited.
Radar's shoulders were at face-level, so I wondered how the heck I was going to climb up on him. I needn't have worried. My benefactor fetched a step-ladder of suitable size. I put my left foot in the stirrup, and swung my other leg over. And here its ... proof that I rode Radar at the Wagon Wheel Bar in Interior South Dakota:
Now of course, the
reason for offering me this ride was as American as a souvenir T-shirt ... as a matter of fact, it
was a souvenir T-shirt ... for the paltry sum of $15, which I gladly paid. I've still got it.
And of course, when we finally made our way back to the KOA, every cyclist on the tour was anxious to visit the Wagon Wheel and ride Radar. And we all did that, after having the best friend chicken I've ever had at a quiet little restaurant ran by some Native American sisters. OMG ... you know food is good when you still remember it years later.
So there you go ... oodles of charm in places where you least expect to find it ... with my friends at the Wagon Wheel.
