History books are filled with names and places and events and they fill a space within our heads like so much clutter stored in the attics of our homes. Every now and again we rifle through the boxes, albums and folders left behind by others and marvel at the moment. It is this backdrop of historical memorabilia that I arrived into Montana on what I thought was a frontage road following the interstate. Dawn was breaking and the dew was thick like fog but the heat of the summer sun was already forming steam rising from the asphalt. I was riding the ebbs and curves of the Montana hillside only to come across Little Bighorn. The last stand of Colonel Custer. What history prepares us for and what the reality is are two completely different experiences. We are given the American-centric view of a battle at close quarters but to walk through the headstones all 4 miles of them stretching out long and far upon the tapestry of rolling grasses, one can nearly feel the hoof beats reverberating through the soil, smell the cordite floating on the wind, hear the clash of metal and whoop of war cries. All that are left are the names forgotten to the history books, names that were left as a list on the battleground. This is history and this two hour excursion imprinted more than several years of schooling. As I wheeled back onto the road, aimed east, the markers signaling my departure I thought that this is how history should be taught: by experiencing it. By our experiences we live the Biker Life.
See you further on up the road...
