The start of the first day is one punctuated by something that's more along the lines of a therapy session compared to the kickoff to a traditional motorcycle rally. Brady McLean, the Devilstone Run and Go Fast, Don't Die's ring leader, atop his conversion van, tells everyone to introduce themselves to their neighbor, hug them, and treat them like family despite likely meeting for the first time.
He tells everyone that we share a love for motorcycling and that the thing that binds us together is stronger than whatever differences we might think we have.
Those are pretty wild things to hear, especially at a motorcycle rally. I normally hate riding in large groups. Motorcycling is more about the solitude and the chance to breathe and be free from life's complexities, which include dealing with people and their personal shit.
Add the pressure to act one way or another, to fit in with the group's dynamics, to ride outside your limits or pretend you're something you're not, and I just don't have the time or the patience to deal with all of that. I'm at the age—and mindset thanks to therapy—where I finally just don't care what people think about me, nor am I going to change who I am just to fit in with other riders.
I just want to ride motorcycles.
As such, rallies like those that happen around Sturgis or Daytona, as well as countless others, aren't of interest to me at all. But there was something about this rally that made me curious enough to stow my aversion to such rallies. Something about the company's dedication to bringing in everyone within the community and stoking the, well, stoke of riding.
I'm so glad I went. It was perfect. There's just one problem. By writing about it, you'll know about this hidden gem of a ride and then it won't be hidden anymore.
Shit.
The Devilstone Run, now in its eighth year, started when Brady was on a ride back up from Mexico, while he rode through Wyoming's hills, forests, and national parks and thought, "Man, I want my friends with me." And what started as a collection of his buds quickly became a ticketed event, rolling from the Devil's Tower past Sheridan and Cody and finally through Yellowstone National Park.
Get it? Devils-Stone? Don't worry, it took me and our group way too long to put that together, too.
The route—set up by the good folks at Rever—takes you from the base of the Devil's Tower through Gillette, across the plains into Sheridan, up into the mountains above Cody, and finally through Yellowstone National Park and onto the shores of Jackson Lake outside of Jackson, Wyoming. But instead of some agro, hopped-up, street-takeover, noisy-asshole ride with a bunch of wannabes and cosplayers, the over-arching idea is to be chill with one another and engage in building a proper community of folks who just love to ride.
As such, there's no pretense, no bullshit, no primping or preening or pretending you're a hard motherfucker. You just come as you are (Nirvana intensifies) and you're accepted into the group. It doesn't matter what you ride, as Harleys mingle with Indians, BMWs hang with KTMs and Ducatis, and there were even a few street-legal dirtbikes just for the hell of it. And everyone camps and hangs out together, swapping stories, sharing beers and tacos, and getting cool tattoos in a field behind a gas station.
I didn't get one, but not for a lack of trying.
And the atmosphere is one of acceptance. One where riders will stop en masse if they see another rider broken down by the side of the road, helping them fix their bike. Where someone will bin it on the growing off-road portion of the route and wait for the group to help them fix it so they get to lunch (we got the person into second, thankfully). Or when, after the day's ride, folks will just hop onto a stranger's motorcycle to do a slow race two or even three up, quickly becoming fast friends.
That vibe and atmosphere throughout the four-day ride is in large part thanks to Brady whose radical positivity is truly infectious.
It's wild to see, as the motorcyclists around me varied in appearance from what looked to be old Harley dudes to young women on adventure bikes. You wouldn't expect this group to mesh so well, yet they do. And there's not a hint of looking down upon anyone for their chosen motorcycle, how fast or slow they ride, whether they bought or built their bikes, or whether they wear full gear, partial gear, or no gear.
I'd call it radical acceptance—something this world needs more of.
And though that vibe is what carries the rally, Brady and his team couldn't have picked a more picturesque ride, as Wyoming is spectacularly beautiful and varied in its landscapes. Vast golden plains where antelope dot the landscape give way to coniferous forests, rocky outcroppings, ancient valley gorges, and national parks. It's just stunning to witness on the back of a bike.
I also made it my mission to find great coffee wherever we stopped, so shout out to Bison Union Coffee in Sheridan, Rawhide Coffee in Cody, and Persphepone in Jackson.
But again, while the scenery was beautiful, and the nearly 1,000-mile ride awesome, it was the people of the event that were the best part.
I giggled like an idiot with two new friends as we rode three-up during the slow races, I jumped into the icy stillness of Jackson Lake in my briefs with Brady and a handful of others after the final ride, I grabbed coffee with Jess from Her Two Wheels and we cleaned up a broken bottle on the sidewalk, I sat and watched an old friend get a new tattoo out in the field, we ate and shared stories and rode countless miles all while smiling like weirdos. There was also a buffalo.
And that just hasn't been the case on the other rides I've taken part of. The fun, not the buffalo part.
Too often, people need to pretend they're something they're not to try and fit in. Too often, they get into their heads and want to show off how cool they are, how well they ride, how much they don't care what you think about them. And it breeds a certain vibe that's just overbearing in every sense of the word. You end up not being yourself trying to fit in with people who wouldn't stop to help you if you were on fire.
That's just not the case for the Devilstone Run, nor the riders who participated.
The tattoo I wanted to snag in that field behind a gas station read, "Risk Happy." It's one of Go Fast, Don't Die's slogans. I'm still planning on getting it, as is my wife, but the tattoo is one that I think encompasses the Devilstone Run perfectly. To me, "Risk Happy" means putting yourself out there, being your truest self, leaning into your weirdness, and risking it all to just be you. Risking the potential ridicule or anger and resentment of others all to be happy and not forcing yourself into society's pre-formed boxes.
I've risked a lot in my life to be happy and, again, I'm at the point in my life where I just want to be me. And I finally feel comfortable being happy. I want to ride and dance to my music. I want to plow through river crossings laughing like an idiot who only brought riding shoes, not waterproof boots. I want to have fun, do wheelies, ride without hands, slow race my friends, and risk being happy over pretending to be cool or what others might think is cool.
The Devilstone Run, "The Ocho" as this year's event was called, allowed me to do exactly that. Where I risked it all and the people on the rally just accepted me for me. They welcomed my weirdness and insanity and want for having fun on motorcycles, as they all wanted those things too. It didn't matter where we came from, what bike we rode, how we rode, or anything. It was just acceptance, something that's increasingly hard to find in groups these days.
Now, though I said I fear shining a spotlight on this event earlier, I do hope it actually expands. I want more people to experience this as, and this is true, I think what Brady and the Go Fast, Don't Die crew have put together is something that has the potential to help our fractured-ass community. The Devilstone Run, though it's just a motorcycle ride, is something that breeds empathy and is a great reminder that we're all human and aren't all that different from one another.
It was an uplifting ride. I can't wait for next year.
