After a broken romance I decided the best way to forget women would be to take a long vacation with my other "love", my motorcycle. I contacted a good friend and fellow rider and together we decided to head west. I had traveled the west with my parents years earlier so I suggested we tour the Black Hills and Yellowstone Park. My friend, "Fuzz", who probably had never been more than 100 miles from home, readily agreed and two days later we were packing our saddle bags and tying a couple of rolled up blankets on our Harleys. My bike was a 1947 74 OHV that I had purchased new after owning four older used Harleys. Fuzz had just purchased a dealer's 1948 74 OHV demo machine (his first cycle). Both bikes were loaded with chrome and lots of lights. (We won't say anything about trying to keep the batteries charged while riding at night!).

We took off early the next morning from Monona, Iowa, and headed west across northern Iowa.

About 3:30 P.M. and 300 miles down the road we stopped to rest at a small park in Rock Rapids in northwest Iowa. Couldn't understand why our legs were aching so much. Finally we figured out why. Most of the shock absorbing properties of the old Harleys were in the spring post under the seat. This constant bouncing up and down kept our legs bending continually and that's why they ached so much.

After a short rest we kept riding until we reached Mitchell, S. Dakota about 7:00 P.M. This was the height of the tourist season and there were not nearly the number of cabins or motels then that there are now; so after stopping at three different motels with "No Vacancy" signs, the manager at the third one asked if we would settle for a room in a private home. We were beginning to get desperate so we said yes. He called the woman who had the room for rent and she said it was available. ( He neglected to tell her that the two "nice young fellows" were riding motorcycles).

After getting directions to the home we rode there and knocked on the door. When the lady came to the door, saw our black leather jackets and the motorcycles, she was ready to slam the door in our faces. We begged her to let us stay, assuring her that we were not troublemakers. She finally agreed to rent us the room ( a small basement apartment) after warning us not to use the stove, no smoking inside, keep things clean, etc. etc.

We arose early the next morning, adjusted our chains, packed up and left before the lady of the house discovered the puddles of oil on the driveway where the cycles had been parked. (Thank goodness for my present Goldwing with it's shaft drive and clean bottom).

After a short visit to the Corn Palace we again were heading west. My friend, being a farmer, could not understand why they wasted good corn to decorate a building.

About the middle of the afternoon we were about 25 miles from Kadoka when we came upon road construction. One half of the road was being "oiled". (Our half, of course). We tried riding just left of the center line but all the cars coming towards us were blowing their horns and giving us dirty looks, so we eased back to the slippery side of the road. The road was highly "crowned" and I kept sliding more and more toward the deep ditch on the right side. Finally I had to lay the bike down to keep from going in the ditch.

Fuzz stopped and helped me pick up the bike. Then we moved out of that mess and continued on the left side for the rest of the construction zone.

We had planned to ride through the Badlands and stop at Wall, or possibly Rapid City for the night but decided to stop early at Kadoka so I could clean myself and the motorcycle after that spill on the wet tar. We got a cabin, bought a little gasoline and washed the tar out of my jeans and off the bike.

That evening a young fellow came over to the cabin, introduced himself and said he knew me. I didn't remember him or his name but it seems he was from a town near home where I did a lot of roller skating. His uncle owned the tourist court and he was working there for the summer. He asked for a ride on the motorcycle so I took him up the road a couple of miles and back. When we rode back into the tourist court the manager was waiting for us. Seems a couple of other tourists had complained about the noise of the motorcycle. The manager told us we would have to leave if we rode around anymore that evening. (Geeze, it was only 8:30 p.m.).

The next morning we enjoyed a beautiful ride through the Badlands, stopped at Wall Drug Store for the cold ice water and 5 cent coffee, watched the animated cowboy bands play and then headed for Rapid City. We stopped at the local Harley Davidson shop for some oil and a little carburetor adjustment on Fuzz's cycle. He was using almost twice as much gas as I was. While we were there we met a couple of "kids" from Ohio. (Kids - they were 19, we were 21 and 22. Ha!). we decided to ride through the Hills together the rest of the day. We visited Mt. Rushmore, drove the Needles Highway and ended up at Custer, S.D. for the night. We managed to get two adjoining rooms at this modern motel.

After unloading our gear we rode downtown to a local cafe to eat. Wanting to "put on the dog" Fuzz and I ordered buffalo steak. I think I swallowed mine whole. Tough, wow!

The next day we said goodbye to our Ohio companions and they headed for home. We pressed westward hoping to make Cody, Wyoming by nightfall. We crossed the mountains from Buffalo to Ten Sleep, stopping several times for pictures, etc. Fuzz would stand in awe at the size of the "hills", wondering why the bikes had no power and were spitting out black smoke whenever you would try to accelerate. I explained about the rarefied air causing the carbs to be over rich but that things would be back to normal after we descended to a lower elevation.

Leaving Ten Sleep we noticed a bad storm coming our way. We turned around and rushed back into Ten Sleep. We ran into a motel office just as the storm hit.

We decided that perhaps this would be a good time to clean up, shave off four days of beard growth and change clothes. Yes, I said change clothes. I could still smell gasoline in my jeans. Maybe the waitresses in the restaurants would give us better service and the motel managers wouldn't eye us so suspiciously. Ha! I had a travel kit with razor, toothpaste, shaving creme in a tube (no aerosol cans back then), etc. in the bottom of one saddlebag. When I took it out I found the tubes of toothpaste and shaving creme had broken from the vibration of the past several days and it was all one gooey mess. Well, we managed to shave and brush our teeth. Shaving wasn't so bad but did you ever try brushing your teeth with a mixture like that? Yuk!

We left the next morning and headed for Cody. We rode through Shoshone Canyon and entered Yellowstone at the east entrance. Again we were stymied by "No Vacancy" at all the cabin sites. We did a little sightseeing and ended up near Old Faithful. We still couldn't find a cabin to spend the night so we decided to be brave and sleep out. We put a couple of blankets on the ground, stretched one over the top of the bikes and lay down to sleep. About 11:00 p.m. it got so cold we couldn't stand it any more. I suggested we go over to the Old Faithful Inn (or Hotel) Maybe they would let us sleep in the lobby. So over we went. I asked the fellow at the desk if there was a place we could "bunk down" for the night. He said, "Yes, we have a nice room for $9." That seemed quite high since we had been paying $1.50 to $2.50 for a cabin each night. (Remember, this was 1949). I said "Is that the cheapest room you have?" He replied "Yes, but that's American Plan". I asked "What's the American Plan?". He informed us that breakfast was included. So we thought that might not be too bad since breakfast was included.

After going to our room, I thought I would take a picture of this "expensive" room. Not having a flash attachment for my camera, I was going to take it out of the case, set it on a table or dresser and take a time exposure. When I took the carrying case off, the camera body fell into a hundred pieces. You see, earlier in the day we had come upon a snow bank in the mountains and playfully engaged in a snowball fight. While doing this, the strap on the case broke and the camera dropped to the road. I quickly picked it up and looked at the lens. Like an automobile, you can smash in the front of the car and the headlights never seem to break, the lens was fine. So, I thought everything was okay until I took it out of the case that night. So much for anymore photography on this trip.

After a good night's sleep we arose and put on clean jeans and a clean t-shirt, and mosied on down to the dining room for our breakfast. The fellow at the door stopped us. "Sorry boys, you need to wear a tie and coat to eat here." "What? That fellow at the desk last night hadn't told us about any dress code. How many motorcyclists have a tie and coat with them when they travel, for occasions like this?" Of course the desk clerk was nowhere to be found or we probably would have choked him. We were really pretty sore about the whole situation. We couldn't even get the fellow at the door to smuggle some food to us so we could go outside to eat it. We left in a huff, determined never to stay there again.

After leaving the Inn, hungry and very angry, we spent the rest of the day touring the park. I have always been amazed at the activity of the geysers, the beauty of the Falls and the Canyon, the bears and other wild life. I can understand why people did not believe the stories of Yellowstone that the early explorers told after they had seen these sights. Late in the day we left the park via the northeast entrance and spent the night in Cooke City, Montana.

The next day we rode over the Beartooth Mt. Pass, stopping only to try a little "hill-climbing" in the snow banks at the top of the pass.

We then rode steady, heading for North Dakota. We crossed the Montana/North Dakota line around 4:30 p.m., planning on riding until dark and then stopping at some park in a small town and sleeping out. It was much warmer there than in Yellowstone and we were running out of money anyhow.

Now comes the "tragic" part of the trip.

We had just passed through Medora in the North Dakota Badlands when we come upon more road construction. The road was hard with a lot of loose gravel on top. I was riding in the center "track" and had my eyes on some approaching cars, knowing I would soon have to cross the strip of loose gravel to the other "track". All of a sudden, it seemed as if the front wheel had dropped off, flipping me high in the air. I had hit three holes in the middle of the road, 10-12 inches deep. The next thing I knew, I was sliding along the gravel on my back and the bike was sliding along beside me, about 55 mph. As soon as I stopped sliding, I jumped up, grabbed one shoe that had fallen off and went to pick up the bike, mad as hell because I had been riding motorcycles for 5 years and Fuzz had only ridden about a year. Yet, I was the one who spilled twice on this trip.

As I tried to pick up the bike, I felt a sharp pain in my left shoulder. I could feel my broken collarbone protruding through the skin. Fuzz came and picked up my motorcycle, looked at me and said, "Gee, you've got a real bad cut on your head". (In those days you only wore a helmet if you were racing or hill climbing). As the blood started running down the side of my face, I realized I was hurt more seriously than I thought.

The cars that had been coming toward me stopped but they could offer no help. They were also tourists and had no idea where there would be a doctor or hospital. Some of the road crew were a short distance away and saw the accident happen. They came rushing over but they all were from other parts of the state and didn't have any idea where to get help, so they radioed their foreman who was a couple of miles away. About that time I started to get dizzy, felt weak and everything began to get hazy. I was about to pass out. I asked for some water and the road workers got me a drink from the water cooler on their truck. I sat on the running board of the truck and took a drink. This cleared my head but the pain in my shoulder was getting unbearable.

Shortly thereafter, the foreman of the road crew arrived in an old pickup. He said he knew there was no doctor in Medora, so he would take me to Belfield. (About 20 miles to the east). Ambulance service was practically non-existent in those days, so we rode in that old pickup truck over a very bumpy road to Belfield. We found that they had no medical services there either and we would have to go to Dickinson to the hospital. (Another 15 miles over a very bad road).

We finally arrived at the hospital, about two and a half hours after the accident.

As we drove up to the emergency entrance of the hospital a nurse stuck her head out of a window. The foreman yelled at her and said, "We've got a fellow that was hurt in a motorcycle accident. Where do you want him?". The nurse said, "Can he walk?". I answered, "Yes, he can!", as I climbed out of the truck holding my shoulder.

Upon entering the hospital I was bombarded with all the usual questions - Name, address, age, do you have insurance? What doctor do you want? (Dumb question!) I said, "My doctor lives 800 miles from here and I'm afraid he wouldn't come this far to treat me, so I'll settle for whoever is available". They hastily conferred among themselves and then called a doctor who was off duty that day, because the rest of the staff was busy.

After all the necessary forms were filled out I was taken to the emergency room and told to wait for the doctor. Sure glad I wasn't having a serious heart attack!

While I was waiting for the doctor several nurses peeked in as they walked by. "Oh, were you thrown by a bronc?" Seems there was a rodeo in town that day and they had treated a couple of injured riders earlier in the day. Ha! I replied, "Yes, by an iron bronc".

The doctor finally arrived, took one look at me and grabbed a scissors. He cut up the front of my t-shirt and threw it in the waste basket. Then I was put on the x-ray table and the nurses took two x-rays of my shoulder and one of my head. While the doctor waited for the x-rays one nurse began to clean all my cuts and bruises. She started to shave the hair around the cut on my head so they could stitch it shut. Suddenly, she stopped and I heard her say, "Oh, oh". She reached for a tweezers and then removed two small stones from under my scalp. She laughed and said, "You can't say you never had rocks in your head".

After the cut was stitched and all the other scratches, etc. were treated, the doctor returned with the x-rays. He showed me how the collarbone was shattered at the break and said he would set it side by side. It would grow together and gradually lengthen to it's normal size but I would have a bump there for three or four years. (I still have a bump there after 47 years). The doctor then proceeded to set the collarbone and put a cast on, telling me to come back in about four weeks to have the cast removed. I said I intended to return home and wouldn't come back 800 miles just to get the cast off. He laughed and said he guessed that any doctor could remove it.

To shorten an already long story, everything turned out all right. The next day Fuzz took a fellow from the local Harley-Davidson shop out to the accident site to ride my machine back to Dickinson. We called my uncle and he came to Dickinson to bring me home. I left the motorcycle at the Harley shop and returned about six months later and brought it home.

Now for the most unbelievable part of this story - I was in the hospital three nights and two days. The total hospital bill, x-rays, meals, emergency room, etc., including the doctor's fee for treating me was $51.00 !