Storms, Switchbacks, and Soggy Pizza: Riding the Needles Highway and Iron Mountain Road

After a long day working our booth at the Buffalo Chip, the last thing most folks would think about is hopping on a motorcycle and heading into the mountains. But we’re not most folks—and the itch to see Mount Rushmore had been gnawing at us all week.

Hannah and I had talked about making the run earlier in the day. Richard, Jordan, and Brent caught wind of the plan and wanted in too. The only problem? We didn’t have enough Halcyon 450s to go around. Ever the problem solver, Hannah offered to take the Janus van as a chase vehicle. She even checked the weather—which seemed like it might cooperate. (Spoiler: it didn’t.)

We hit the road with high spirits. Richard and Jordan rode the Halcyon 450s, while Brent and I were on the Gryffin prototypes we’d brought to Sturgis. Our route started out on the interstate, which, to my surprise, turned out to be smooth and manageable. The bikes held steady at 75–80 mph, and the Gryffin felt planted, even on long stretches of slab.

We exited the highway and fueled up before heading into the Black Hills. At the gas station, an older gentleman filling up his vintage Indian gave us a nod and complimented the bikes. We returned the sentiment—we know what it means to love something that connects you to the past.

Then came the climb.

Needles Highway isn’t just a ride—it’s an experience. Twisting, narrow roads with granite spires jutting up around every corner, hairpin turns, and views that stop you in your tracks (if you’re brave enough to stop). As we zig-zagged our way to the top, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the hills.

It was peaceful. Briefly.

Dark clouds gathered fast. What began as a few lazy sprinkles quickly escalated into a full-blown thunderstorm. I had an open-face helmet and sunglasses—great for sunny days, less great when you’re being pelted in the eyes with sideways rain. I ditched the glasses in favor of slightly better visibility, and we pressed on.

Lightning began to flash across the sky, giving us fleeting glimpses of the stunning (and now slightly ominous) scenery. The rain felt like needles in my eyes. Still, we pushed forward, heads down, engines humming through the deluge.

At one point, we entered a curve that seemed to wind endlessly through the forest. Turns out, that was the famous Pigtail Bridge—its spiraling wooden structure surreal under strobing flashes of lightning.

Finally, we descended out of the mountains, soaked, sore, and buzzing from the intensity of it all. Hannah pulled up beside me and asked, “Did you see it?!”

“See what?” I replied.

“Mount Rushmore!”

I didn’t. Not a glimpse. The whole mission had technically failed, and yet, somehow, it didn’t feel that way at all.

We found a little pizza place still open, pulled the bikes under an awning, and trudged in—dripping wet and grinning like lunatics. The pizza was hot, the beer was cold, and in that moment, life was perfect.

Riding the Needles Highway and Iron Mountain Road in a thunderstorm wasn’t what we planned. But it’s something I’ll never forget. It was raw, real, and exactly what motorcycling is about—adventure, risk, friendship, and a damn good story at the end.