Day 3 – Manhattan, KS to Deadwood, SD
Didn’t get much sleep (was it the beer, the spicy wings?), but that’s par for the course on days like this. Dawn’s not even cracked and I’m firing up the steel horse, ready to chew up close to 700 miles to Deadwood.
Manhattan’s in my mirrors before the sun’s even finished its coffee, and it’s already pushing 80—yeah, today’s going to be a real sweatbox. Got one coin stop, then it’s that soul-draining slog across Nebraska—land of infinite corn, anonymous cattle, and more nothingness than you can shake a throttle at.
Five miles in and—bam—road closed. Of course my GPS is snoozing on the job, and surprise, surprise, zero detour signs. I’m not the only lost soul, either; the road’s clogged with drivers looking just as clueless. Screw it, point the bike West, compass mode engaged, and slice through the dark & sketchy backstreets.
Twenty minutes of urban dodgeball before a bigger road finally coughs up a “detour” sign and I’m back on the route, only a little time hemorrhaged. At least the storm’s behind me—lightning flashing somewhere in my rearview, but I outran that beast.
Sunrise, bike humming, empty highway stretching forever. Catching that golden glow in my mirrors is what it’s all about—moments like this almost make up for the rest.
Next pit stop: Cawker City, home of the World’s Largest Ball of Twine (because why not). Came close to missing it thanks to—you guessed it—more road work.
Turns out that’s today’s recurring side quest. Grabbed the cheesy photo and hit the road, only to get smacked by another closure ten miles out.
Kansas, you must be kidding me. Cue another detour: 7 miles south, 30 west, dead north into Nebraska. More time wasted in the oven.
Nebraska—yeah, still the same flavorless slab of nothing I remember from years back.
Hit Broken Bow and it’s déjà vu all over again: every street torn up, stop-and-go hell, the whole town a construction zone. No gas, either. Stations either closed or bone-dry. Limped out with fumes in the tank and finally fueled up ten miles down the line. Didn’t think a gas station could feel like an oasis, but here we are.
Miles and miles of straight, soul-crushing road later, I’m aiming at Alliance, NE, where I was supposed to catch up with Ken.
But the delays did me in—he’s already northbound. Small mercy: Alliance serves up fresh apple fritters, and that’s a delay I’ll actually sign up for.
Carhenge? Been there, done that, not getting off the saddle for a rerun (that photo is from 2016).
While I’m inhaling fritter and gas station coffee, I bump into Scott from “Ride it Wrench it.” He’s headed for Sturgis too, taking the Wyoming line. One of the best parts of big runs like this—doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from, if you ride, you’re family. We shoot the breeze, swap some stories, and roll out together. That camaraderie, the easy banter—it’s the kind of stuff you can’t fake. Only lasts until one of us has to split, but for a while, the ride’s a little less lonely.
Finally crossed into South Dakota, Black Hills looming up ahead like a promise. My tires are begging for some curves after all that slab riding. Traffic’s a mess near Mt. Rushmore, more roadwork, gravel, dirt, and a wall of rain waiting at the finish line. I’m stuck at a flagger post for what feels like forever. Seriously, did every DOT in the Midwest get the memo to screw up my day?
But once I’m past it, it’s clear sailing. Deadwood at last—roll into the lot just as the sky spits a few drops. Today’s battle logged, safe and mostly in one piece. Time to hose off the road grime and earn myself a cold one and a heap of BBQ. Because after a grind like that, we damn well deserve it.
Roaming Cage Free 
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