Dent Dremmer Rides Alone

If you hang around Mild Bill Hickok long enough, strange things are bound to happen. He loves chasing down ghost stories and has a real knack for finding the eerie stuff. And yes, I always explain that my friend, Mild Bill Hickok is the fourth generation of Bill Hickoks. Except he’s pretty Mild, not very Wild at all. Mostly gray haired and leathery.

   This story starts during the Sturgis Rally, when I found myself with Mild Bill, chasing down one of the biker legends of the Black Hills. A ghostly figure with a bad attitude and worse reputation.

     Experienced Rally goers know to steer clear of Dent Dremmer. Survivors say he lulls you into thinking you’re on the perfect ride, but then he steers you straight into a ravine, or headfirst into a truck, and you don’t realize it until it’s too late.

     There were several motorcycle accidental deaths every year at the Sturgis Rally, usually attributed to inexperienced riders and or, drunk driving, but some who died were experienced riders and stone cold sober. Sometimes it’s said that they must have been following Dent Dremmer.

      Back in the early 1950s, Dent was a notorious biker, but he ran alone, he wasn’t associated with any one gang or club. He was tough as nails and could take anything he could dish out, which was a lot. He just wasn’t so good at socializing.

     He had a fast, burnt-black ’53 Panhead, and Dent lived for the fast fearless rides, but his life ended one night in a fiery wreck on the Boulder Canyon road, just a few miles outside of Sturgis.

     The Long Beach Boys out of California had been feuding with Dent for months. Dent had just butted heads with them too many times. One night at Gunners, in a drunken bar room Sturgis brawl, he badly beat up five and killed one. He also managed to get away, taking to the road faster than most of them dared.

     They knew his route and soon laid an ambush for Dent. They caught him, trapping him between their speeding bikes and forced him off the road into the ditch and the ravine below that. Dent broke his neck, and his bike caught fire as it tumbled down.

     Their ‘Dent problem’ was gone, or so the Long Beach Boys thought.

     Over the next few years, for unexplained reasons, the Long Beach Boys were dying in motorcycle accidents. At one of the Sturgis gatherings, five went off the road, together, into a deep ravine. Coincidentally the same ravine where Dent Dremmer had died.

     At a later rally, the last four members rode straight into a semi truck. Some suspected foul play although no evidence was ever found. Finally no one was left and the club just didn’t exist anymore. Dent Dremmer had taken his revenge out on all of them.

     The problem was that Dent didn’t stop. He continued riding those same deadly curves, leading anyone he could, to their doom.

     Over the next two decades, multiple accidents were recorded at or near the same locations prompting the DOT to add additional signage, warning the riders to be cautious. It helped, yet there were still one or two unexplained accidents every year.

     Then one year, things got worse again. Witnesses saw four bikers ride straight off the road in quick succession, completely missing the curve. Their leader was a man in a dark brown leather jacket, riding a burnt-black antique Harley.

     The witnesses all swore they saw four riders and bikes crash into the ravine, yet only three bodies and three bikes were recovered. The leader, the one who’d led them right to their deaths, was nowhere to be found.

     Occasionally there were survivors. One woman said her group was following a biker who seemed familiar and naturally seemed to be leading the group. They were leaning into a graceful curve and suddenly, the road vanished. She found herself falling through the air, while the leader, who had been only 10 feet ahead, was gone. He could not be located after the accident and it turned out that there was no curve in the road.

     She described him wearing a dark brown leather jacket, dark sunglasses and no helmet. He had short, dark hair and was riding a very old black Harley Panhead. It had a crude white skull painted on the gas tank and stenciled words that said, ‘You Touch – You Die’.

     Other bikers who had heard her description whispered that it was Dent Dremmer, back from the dead, leading bikers to their deaths. They said he’d hypnotize you into thinking the road was there, when it really wasn’t.

     Bill suggested we go and see our mutual friend old Jack. And the next morning we paid him a visit. Jack was a part-time conspiracy theorist who lived out in the woods near Sturgis. He had been part of the Sturgis rally from the earliest days.

     His dilapidated place was part museum and part trailer house. The shelves were lined with trophies, books and relics from old rally days.

     When we asked Jack about Dent Dremmer, he didn’t even blink.

     “Oh, I know about Denton Dremmer, even knew him back in the day.” he said “And you’re not the first to come asking questions either. His real name was Denton, but everyone called him ‘Dent’ because he would ‘Dent you up’ if you messed with him!”

     Jack went on, “It made the news back then, back when he died. Everyone pretty much knew he’d been pushed off the road and they knew it was a group out of Long Beach, California. No proof of course, but back then the sheriff’s office didn’t care how, they were just glad he was gone. Kinda like now-days, except now-days they always find a victim, I mean perpetrator, to pin it all on so they can close their books and move onto their next poor victim.”

     He added, “From what I hear, rumors are anyway, that Dent’s still riding and people are still dying. He lures them off the road.”

     “It seems so.” I could see some of Jack’s theories were hitting Bill’s more ‘sensitive’ side. “Got any advice?” Bill asked coldly.

     “You want to stop Denton Dremmer? I don’t think you can.” He paused, “But you might try to catch him, back where he died, the crash site I mean. Maybe if you confronted him there, reminded him who he was and what happened to him. Let him know his enemies are all dead and gone…”

     “I really don’t know. How do you stop a man who is determined to ride forever? But maybe if Dent is trapped in a loop, maybe you can break it.”

     Mild Bill said it sounded simple enough.

     “Or maybe he’ll take us both over the edge.” I muttered. “If Denton Dremmer couldn’t think himself out of a box back then, why would it be any easier now?”

     Bill agreed with Jack, “Some spirits get stuck in a loop.” he repeated.

     Later that night we were standing on the road near the deadly ravine. The warm wind gusted through the canyon and over the road, like it was challenging any willing leather-clad rider to a race through the sharp twists and turns.

     We waited for him to ride by, planning to let him lead Bill off the road. The goal was to confront Dent at the crash site, try to talk to him, break the loop and end the hauntings. Mild Bill had a knack for these things. Me? Not so much.

     Bill had rolled his Harley to a full stop at a bend in the canyon road, revved the engine, and waited. I waited several miles up ahead by the ‘X Marks the Spot’ marker, where too many people had already died. We kept in contact with our cell phones.

     It was only a few days before the Rally so of course the roads were already full of loud black bikes and riders in rally mode. We watched for an antique black bike with a white skull on the side. After a bit, Bill saw it and its rider. Exactly as described.

     Denton Dremmer’s black Harley was throwing flames out of the exhaust. His eyes looked back at Bill, he waved to him, ‘Come on’. He twisted the throttle and shot down the road. Bill tore after him. The canyon echoed with the roar of engines. Flames shot from Dent’s exhaust as they raced up the canyon road. Dent was leading, just like he had done with many of the others, except this time it was different, Mild Bill knew what was happening.

     As they approached the marker, I waved my arms and yelled to catch their attention. Bill slammed his brakes, skidding to a stop while still on the real road. Dent continued until his bike hit the spot where his own life had ended decades ago. He came to a halt, hanging in mid-air, and looked back at us.

     “Dent!” Bill shouted. “It’s over! You did what you came back for. The Long Beach Boys are all dead and gone now. You don’t have to ride anymore! It’s over!”

     Dent’s bike wavered, the flames from his exhaust were flickering out. His eyes were hollow and tired. It looked like he was actually listening and he even nodded once, almost like a farewell. Then he rode into the darkness, disappearing over the edge without a sound.

     The wind momentarily died down like it was taking notice of the event. “I think you did it!” I said.

     Bill nodded, brushing the dust away from a sudden roadside whirlwind that had momentarily enveloped him. “Maybe.”

     It wasn’t the end for Dent Dremmer, legends like his don’t fade away so easily. There are a lot less unexplained accidents and deaths, but it turns out that Denton Dremmer still rides these roads.

     If you happen to ride a motorcycle in the Black Hills, whether the Rally is in swing or not, be careful who you’re following. People still see him. If you happen to get behind Dent, remember, he’s not limited to the actual roads. His path can take you places no map shows, leading you straight off a cliff instead of what looks like a graceful curve.

     Just remember that Denton Dremmer rides forever, alone… emphasis on alone!

by randy peterson