Steel Horse Rally 2026

Steel Horse Rally: Bourbon, Brotherhood, and Bad Decisions (the Good Kind)

I think it was around 2018 when I realized I’d been living wrong.

Scrolling through my phone, I see my boys Donnie and Stump up in Fort Smith for something called the Steel Horse Rally. My first reaction?

What the hell is this… and why the hell am I not there?

Never even heard of it. Turns out it started in 2015—founded by Dennis Snow as a charity rally supporting veterans, military, first responders… all damn good causes. Respect.

But at that moment? All I knew was this—based on the pictures they sent me, I had missed an absolute crazy good time of a weekend.

That problem got corrected in 2019.

Seven Years Later… Still No Regrets (Mostly)

Fast forward, and here we are. I haven’t made every single year—life, work, occasional poor planning—but I’ve made enough to know one thing:

You don’t skip Steel Horse.

We stay right downtown. Not “close to the action”—in it. Like, step-out-the-door-and-you’re-already-in-trouble kind of location. I’m actually setting a damn timer this week to book next year’s rooms before some other fool beats me to it.

This year, Donnie and Stump couldn’t make it—which sucked—but I rolled in with Lucy and some solid Texas CVMA crew: Hoist and KittyKat. Within about five minutes of arriving, we’re running into brothers from 44-2 in Mississippi and a whole mess of Arkansas folks.

At that point, it stops being a trip and starts being a reunion.

The Ride In: Weather Lies and Good Timing

Originally planned to roll in Thursday… because that’s what responsible adults say they’re going to do.

Reality? Friday.

Hoist and I were fully geared up mentally for a wet ride—rain gear, bad attitudes, the whole deal. But wouldn’t you know it, the mist clears right when we fire up. Still a little cold—mid-50s—but it warmed up just enough to remind you why you ride.

The ladies rolled in later in the cage—smart decision, as always—and by sundown we were checked in and getting after it.

Before they even got there, I ran into my brother Gruntpa from 44-2 with a small army behind him. Had no clue he was coming. That’s the kind of surprise that kicks a weekend off right.

Controlled Chaos (Heavy on the Chaos)

Once the full crew linked up, we dropped into 906… and let me tell you—CVMA had taken over that place like we were paying rent.

You ever walk into a bar and instantly realize you’re not making it out early? Yeah… that.

Highlight of the night—running into Cray-On. That woman racks up more miles and events than most people rack up excuses. If there’s something happening anywhere in the country, odds are she’s already there with a drink in hand and a story to tell.

Met a ton of others along the way—names? Yeah… those didn’t all survive the bourbon. But every one of them? Good people.

Saturday rolled right into more of the same, including linking back up at a local VFW event. More laughs, more stories, more “we should probably slow down” moments that nobody actually listens to.

The Blur

At some point, time stops making sense.

Live music blending into engine noise.
Cigars that last longer than your memory of lighting them.
Bourbon that somehow keeps refilling itself.
Hugs from people you haven’t seen in a year that feel like you saw them yesterday.

It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s a little reckless.

And it’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sunday: The Reckoning

Then Sunday shows up like it always does—uninvited and way too early.

We mount up. No speeches needed.

Hoist and I fire up the bikes. The ladies jump in the cage as our chase vehicle—because somebody in this group has to be responsible, and it sure as hell isn’t us.

Then it’s 250 miles of two-lane heaven.

Curves, hills, twisties… leaning just enough to remind yourself you’re alive. Maybe a little over the speed limit—but nothing worth writing a confession about.

Before long, we’re back in Texas.

Unloading bikes.
Exchanging hugs.
That quiet moment where everyone knows the weekend’s over—but nobody’s really ready to say it out loud.

Already Planning the Next One

And just like that, it’s done.

Another Steel Horse Rally in the books.

I’ve already got a timer set on my laptop so I don’t miss booking next year’s rooms. Because missing this rally once was enough.

You know what to do.

MY GOD.. best enchiladas ever!

F' Majestic

The Ride to Tombstone: Bad Gas, Sandstorms, and One Hell of a Motorcycle Trip

I Thought My Motorcycle Was Done in the Desert…

But Somehow We Still Made It to Tombstone

For the past few years, I kept telling myself the same thing every time the annual event in Tombstone, Arizona rolled around:

"One of these years I’m riding out there."

This year I finally stopped talking about it and did it.

What started as a simple motorcycle trip across Texas to Arizona turned into a ride filled with bad gas, mechanical scares, desert roads, sandstorms, and one stubborn motorcycle that refused to quit.

Looking back now, it might be one of the best rides I’ve ever taken.

Day One: The Easy Miles

The ride started exactly the way you want a road trip to begin.

Smooth highways. Good weather. Good company.

A few riders from Louisiana and Mississippi were making the trip too, and my buddy EZOut and I headed west to meet up along the way.

We rolled across Texas and stopped for the night in Pecos. Nothing dramatic—just food, a couple drinks, and some sleep before finishing the ride to Arizona the next day.

At that point, everything was going according to plan.

But motorcycle trips rarely stay that simple.

When the Road Captain Turns Around

When we got to Pecos, Coastie's lost his brakes. No back brakes and the fronts in use have the bike shaking. He's scrambling to find a fix which ain't going to happen right away. He made the smart call to turn around before things got worse and eventually rode back to Louisiana after fixing the bike.

The next morning we hit the road early.

Ollie asked me to fill in so I'm now nominated as the new Road Captain.

So I pointed the bikes west and we started rolling.

The Gas Station That Wasn't

Southern New Mexico is some of the most beautiful riding you’ll find.

Long open roads, huge skies, and almost no traffic.

But it’s also very empty.

That’s where I made my mistake.

We passed a gas station that only had regular fuel. Our bikes prefer premium, so I decided we’d just stop at the next town.

That town was Rodeo, New Mexico.

And Rodeo had no gas.

Now we had a problem.

The Harleys in our group could stretch their tanks to reach Douglas.

But my Indian—and another Indian in the group—were about one gallon short.

Shoulda Coulda Woulda

A Desert Fuel Rescue

We started asking around town hoping someone had gas.

Eventually the owner of a nearby store told us her ex-husband had some fuel sitting in a tank.

After what felt like forever, he showed up and pumped some gas out for us. But not before we enjoyed some A/C in the store, I grabbed some lunch as did another couple we ran into (Devil Dog and his lady). In fact, Devil Dog had an extra gallon of gas, but his second he carried was empty, so not enough.

We paid her Ex about $20 for the fuel and hit the road again.

Problem solved… or so we thought.

The First Bike Starts Acting Up

About an hour later I noticed something in my mirrors.

The group kept falling farther and farther behind.

At first I thought they were just easing off the throttle.

But the other Indian rider had started having engine problems.

Bad fuel.

We regrouped, topped off with premium at the next station, and continued toward Tombstone.

But the damage was already done.

Now It's My Bike

With about 50 miles left to Tombstone, my bike started sputtering.

Now I was the one in trouble.

Climbing hills became nearly impossible. The engine struggled just to keep moving.

We stopped in a small copper mining town and I told the guys honestly:

"I don’t think this bike is going to make it."

Two riders took off looking for something—anything—that might help.

They came back with fuel injector cleaner.

Not perfect.

But better than nothing.

The Longest 50 Miles

Those last 50 miles into Tombstone felt like the longest ride of my life.

Every uphill climb nearly killed the bike.

Every downhill stretch let me coast enough to keep moving.

But mile by mile, we got closer.

And eventually…

We rolled into Tombstone, Arizona.

I honestly couldn’t believe the bike made it.

The Tombstone Meet and Greet

Once the bikes were parked, the next stop was obvious.

Food.

We grabbed dinner and a few beers at the Longhorn Restaurant, then crossed the street to the meet and greet.

The room was packed with combat veterans.

Dozens and dozens of them.

Hugs, handshakes, stories, and reunions with people who hadn’t seen each other in awhile.

We found a little corner near a makeshift stage, ordered up lots of Jack Daniels, and spent the night catching up.

Eventually the band started playing, but after a full day of riding I was beat.

Back to the hotel.

A Night Spent Thinking About the Bike

Even lying in bed exhausted, my mind wouldn’t shut off.

All I could think about was the bike.

Was there water in the tank?

Bad fuel?

Clogged filter?

And more importantly…

How was I getting home if the bike died?

Trailer?

AAA?

Call a local CVMA member?

Fly home?

None of those options sounded good.

Saturday: A Temporary Fix

The next morning EZOut and I found a small hardware store and bought some HEET fuel treatment to remove water from the tank.

I poured some in and hoped for the best.

Then we went riding.

And somehow…

The bike ran great.

We rode 40 miles to a Chevron, filled up with premium gas, and it ran perfectly.

For a while.

We found a watering hole that the Hardware guy had reommended (he's a Biker); Buddy's Bar. Few drinks and we are headed back to Tombstone and .... the bike started bucking again.

Now I was back to worrying.

The Gamble: Ride Home in One Day

That night EZOut and I made a decision.

Instead of taking two days to ride home with the group…

We would leave early Sunday morning and ride the entire distance in one shot. Our hope was to beat the cold front that was coming in with much lower temps on Monday.

Sunday morning at 4:15 AM, EZOut pulled up.

I started the bike.

Expecting trouble.

Instead…

It ran perfectly.

The Sandstorm Near Odessa

After riding for hours in the 40s and 50s, temps began to rise, making it to 92 deg East of El Paso. Hours later we approached Odessa, Texas and saw something incredible ahead.

A massive wall of sand moving across the highway.

A full-blown sandstorm.

We geared up and rode straight into it.

Visibility dropped to about 100–200 feet, and the winds pushed our bikes across the lanes.

But somehow we held steady at about 75 mph and kept moving.

From Desert Heat to Freezing Winds

Earlier that day the temperature had climbed to 92°F.

By the time we reached Fort Worth, it had dropped to around 50°F.

At 80 mph on a motorcycle, that feels a lot colder.

We were freezing (okay .. f'n cold!)

But we were close to home.

The Final Miles

We stopped for one last fuel fill.

From there we split up.

EZOut headed down Interstate 20.

I continued on Interstate 30.

About 90 minutes later, I rolled into my driveway.

One Ride for the Books

In the end:

• EZOut rode about 1,100 miles

• I rode about 1,000 miles

No Iron Butt certificate.

No receipts.

No proof.

Just one hell of a ride.

Bad fuel.

Mechanical scares.

Desert highways.

Sandstorms.

And a stubborn Indian motorcycle that refused to quit.

And if anyone wants to ride to Tombstone next year…

I'm in!

As always... packed in less than 60 min .. SMh

Ready roll for the Meetup!

TX, LA, and MS represented. Rolling out

Parked and Hungry : Thu night

Found some awesome Wild Turkey!

Meet n Greet

Shoe Shine man working the room

View from my Hotel Room Porch

My Suite

First Night at Hilton property in Pecos

Sigh. I tried!

yeah .... bike didn't like the shit fuel

Temps into the 90s headed home

Final Leg in the Wind . Literally

______________________________________________________________

The rumble is coming… and it’s headed straight for Tombstone!

Combat Veterans Motorcycle Association® (CVMA®) riders from across the surrounding states are rolling in for an EPIC Motorcycle Rally in the Town Too Tough to Die!

Brothers and sisters of the CVMA® are riding in from all directions to gather in historic Tombstone, Arizona for a weekend of camaraderie, throttle, and honoring those who served. Expect roaring bikes, unforgettable stories, strong bonds, and the unmistakable thunder of veterans riding together.

If you hear the rumble — that’s not just motorcycles… that’s freedom rolling down the street.