Thought I'd play it smart. I bought a new motorcycle tank bag in Sturgis to keep stuff in to alleviate the "packed so tight I can't get to a damned thing" symptom so familiar to the long distance motorcyclist - at least those of us who are too cheap/inflexible/backward/gray-matter-impaired to do it right.

I rationalized that some of the specialized biker stuff was pretty pricey, so, being true to my genes, I opted for a magnetic bag, not one that is attached with clips and straps.

Returning from Sturgis last year, I rode over the summit of a wide, steep mountain toward Avon, Colorado. Up into the much cooler air near ten thousand feet, I was surprised to see a broad wind driven cloud of dust being swept down the side of the mountain ridge on the other side of the highway, beyond the median. The dust was near ground level, pouring off the dry mountainside in broad streaks propelled by a swift wind.

The bluster barreled down the highway in my direction, unimpeded by the mountain pass and the deep canyon by the mountain. It funneled right down the interstate and looked strong enough to blow me away.

Then the dust cloud formed a swirling whirlwind vortex when it intercepted a string of tandem tractor trailer tanker trucks also barreling down the opposite side of the highway, forcing them to snake back and forth over the lanes trying to control their trajectory. I feared for how I might be affected by the unavoidable blast about to impact me. The trucks wandered, meandering over the roadway as they were hit broadside by the big mountain blow.

I had a momentary sinking feeling about my large windscreen surviving the eminent whoosh. I tucked my neck into my shoulder which I sunk into the leather jacket in automatic preparation for Mother Nature's mountain kamikaze.

In an instant, the big whoosh must have slowed my speed by twenty-five miles-per-hour, pushing, tilting my machine to the right as it blew me a foot closer to the road's shoulder. The windshield creaked and flexed. I thought this must be what it's like in a wind tunnel test.

I corrected for the push by leaning, crabbing into the wind to straighten my track. And just as fast as it hit, it was over and quiet again. The dust cloud blew well behind me and on into town.

During the rapid adjustments I made to remain on the road, I hadn't wasted my concern over the new magnetic tank bag. When I felt sufficiently back in control, I looked down for the new bag. It had survived. A little askew, but it was squatting on top of the gas tank.

"Wow. What magnets," I said. The Velcro® flap on the top pocket had come loose and a map had been vacuumed out, but I still had the bag.

West of Death Valley, I was having a hell of a time keeping the bike rolling straight. Riding along the straight and level Route 395 south, with the Sierra Nevada Mountains to my right, near gale force winds swept down those dry mountains and gusted into my right side. They forced me to lean the bike to the right at a sharp angle to be able to track straight ahead.

All along that stretch of road I needed enormous concentration to stay on the straight and narrow, as it were. I felt like I had to make a continuous right turn to track straight ahead.

Exhausting.

The luggage load on the bike made it more difficult to manage, presenting a sail-like profile to the stiff summertime blow. The new magnetic bag survived again.

After turning right onto Route 178, northwest of Mojave, I had both a stiff head wind and eighteen-wheelers heading my way. The walls of air that trucks push along with them stunned me and my bike as we went through those invisible, rolling brick-like boundaries of fast traveling air. It reminded me of jumping into a lake, cannon ball style, hitting the water with a broad thud, then being buoyed back to the surface. Of course, my gas mileage went south.

I had had enough. I decided to over-night in Isabella Lake. That is, to overnight in a motel in the town of Isabella Lake, northwest of Bakersfield.

After locating a motel with a great view of the lake, I was amused by the condition of all the trees at the far end of the water's edge. They were growing bent over, I guess from the incessant, strong prevailing winds blowing straight down the lake. I empathized with the trees. I, too, had spent considerable time and energy leaning into the wind that day.

I began to unpack my gear, but where the hell was my new tank bag? The last time I remember seeing it was just before blasting through those great rolling walls of truck air blasts. Yeah. That was it.

Decision time. Do I retrace my steps and look for it? Do I chuck it off to a bad purchase decision?

Okay, dummy. What was in it? Hmm, my new flashlight, a new knife, maps, stuff. Hell, I'd been on the road long enough to have forgotten where I stuffed my stuff. And what were the chances of finding the bag? Those damn trucks may well have blown the damn thing off into the boonies, never to be seen again. Probable.

I was torn. The motel bed seemed as if it was calling my tired, hungry body to its embrace. But admitting to a poor purchase decision was tough to swallow. I left the siren call of the comfortable room and set out in search of my stupid new bag.

A few miles out, I admitted the bag couldn't be stupid. Its' owner, on the other hand...

Examining the road and shoulders as I weaved over them, it became obvious early on that lots of junk had accumulated along the route. Litter and debris were strewn all over. "Gonna be tough picking out the amorphous remains of that bag among all this detritus," I mumbled. "Too bad travelers consider the great out-doors their personal garbage can."

When the odometer hit the thirty mile mark I stopped on the shoulder and stood on the foot pegs to see as far ahead as I could. The bargain hunter in me felt guilty. At that moment, I thought I saw a lump alongside the shoulder on the opposite side of the road, up ahead. Nah. Probably just shadows from the late afternoon sun. I turned left to return to the call of the comfortable motel room but somehow the cheap in me kept me turning to make a three hundred and sixty-degree circle. I proceeded, nah, sped to that lump at the side of the road.

Yes.

And just a bit more worn than a new tank bag should be. I went through the contents and everything was there.

So, it's always a joy when things actually work out well as the day's ride ends. Like, for example, during one of those summer mountain storms. Bikers always derive a smug sense of accomplishment when they make it into a motel room just before the thunderheads actually dump on them. The feeling that makes the gusts, trucks, dust and whatever, fade into forgotten oblivion.

After a decent steak dinner and a brisk conversation with two luscious, leathered ladies who were also returning from the Black Hills, I spread-eagled on the cushy bed, rubbed my stomach and commented to the ceiling, "What a ride. Next year, I'll be smarter.

Much smarter."

Sturgis Rally News.