Dent Dremmer Rides Alone

If you hang around Mild Bill Hickok long enough, strange things are bound to happen. He has a real knack for finding the eerie stuff and loves chasing down ghost stories. My friend, Bill Hickok, is not like his 4th great-uncle, Wild Bill Hickok. Mild Bill is pretty Mild, not very Wild at all. He’s mostly gray-haired and leathery.

     This story starts right before 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 an even 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, and then he steers you straight into a ravine or headfirst into a truck. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.

     There were several accidental motorcycle deaths every year at the Sturgis Rally, usually attributed to inexperienced riders and or drunk driving. Still, some who died were experienced riders and stone-cold sober. Some rumors say they were 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 abruptly ended one night in a fiery wreck on Boulder Canyon Road, 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 trapped him between their speeding bikes and forced him off the road into the ditch, which led into a ravine below that. Dent broke his neck, and his motorcycle 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 riders were dying in motorcycle accidents. At one of the Sturgis gatherings, three went off the road together into a deep ravine. The same ravine where Dent Dremmer had died.

     At a later rally, the last two members rode straight into a semi-truck. Some suspected foul play, although no evidence was found. Finally, no one was left, and the club just didn’t exist anymore. Dent Dremmer had taken his revenge 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 around the same locations, which prompted the Department of Transportation to add additional signage warning riders to be cautious. It helped, yet there were still one or two unexplained accidents every Rally.

     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 old Harley Panhead.

     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 and could not be located after the accident. It also turned out that there was no curve in the road.

     She described him as wearing a dark brown leather jacket, dark sunglasses, and no helmet. He had short, dark hair and rode a very old black Harley. 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 Jack, an acquaintance of his and an old friend of mine. He was someone who likely knew more than the old official Sheriff reports showed. Jack was a part-time conspiracy theorist who lived out in the woods near Sturgis. He had been a part of the Sturgis Rally from back then. The next morning, we paid him a visit.

     His dilapidated place was part museum and part trailer house. The shelves were lined with trophies and relics from old rally days, and the floor sagged heavily in places, making it difficult to know where to walk.

     After the basic pleasantries, I asked Jack about Dent Dremmer. He didn’t even blink.

     “Oh, I know about Denton Dremmer, even met 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!”

     With a little prodding, 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 club out of California. No proof, of course, but back then, the law didn’t care how he died. They were just glad he was dead.”

     Looking directly at Mild Bill, “Kinda like now days, except now days they find a victim, I mean a criminal, to pin it all on so they can close their books and move onto their next victim.” Looking back at me, he added, “It’s the only way they get the government money, if they find some sucker to pin it all on.”

     He quickly switched gears and added, very casually, “From what I hear, rumors are anyway, that Dent’s still riding and people are still dying. He lures them off the road. That so?”

     “It seems so.” I could see some of Jack’s theories were hitting Mild Bill’s more sensitive side. Bill was technically retired, but with the name Bill Hickok, he was never off-duty. “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. Remind him who he was and what happened to him. Let him know his enemies are all dead now, long gone…”

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

     Pausing for maximum effect, “Just don’t talk to him like a dickhead deputy sheriff!” Jack loudly smirked. He loved poking the bear when he knew he could get away with it. He kinda lived for it. Jack stood up. Our visit was over.

     Mild Bill smiled, and the three of us laughed. “Bill Hickoks and Jack-Asses don’t often mingle, but today has been my pleasure.” Bill thanked him on the way out the door. We all kinda laughed again.

     Bill thought it sounded simple enough, “Let him lead me to the spot, and you be there to stop us both.”

     “Or maybe he’ll take you 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 reluctantly agreed with Jack, “Some spirits get stuck in a loop.”

     Later that night, we stood on the road near the deadly ravine. It was a perfect night for riding the canyon. The warm wind was gusting down through the canyon, tempting and challenging any willing rider to race through the sharp twists and turns.

     We would wait for Dent to ride by and let him try to lead Bill off the road. I would be waiting at the crash site. 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 a couple of miles 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 the roads were already full of loud black bikes and riders in rally mode. We watched for an antique black Harley with a white skull on the tank. After a bit, Bill saw it and its rider, exactly as described.

     Denton Dremmer’s old Panhead was running well. His eyes looked back at Bill, and 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 down the canyon road. Dent was leading, just like he had done with 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 came to a halt, hanging in mid-air, and looked back at us with dark eyes.

     “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 had flickered out. At one point, 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 quit blowing, like it was taking notice of the event. “I think you did it!” I declared. We were suddenly enveloped in a roadside dusty whirlwind.

     Bill nodded, brushing the dust away from his eyes. “Maybe.”

     There are fewer unexplained accidents and deaths, but know that Dent Dremmer still rides these roads. Legends like Dent Dremmer don’t fade away so easily.

     If you ride a motorcycle in the Black Hills, whether the Rally is in swing or not, be careful who you follow. People still see him. If you happen to get behind Dent, remember that 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