Jake Summerland

The sun beat down on Jake's leathered back as he navigated the winding roads of the Black Hills of South Dakota. He'd been riding for days, the scent of pine and dust clinging to his clothes, the rumble of his Harley a constant companion. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally was just a few days away, but Jake was in no hurry. He relished the solitude, the open road, the feeling of freedom that only came with a long ride. He spotted a sign for "The Splitting Lumber" just off the main road. The name intrigued him, and the promise of "mouthwatering smoked BBQ" was too tempting to resist. He pulled into the gravel parking lot, the sound of his engine drawing a few curious glances from the folks already enjoying the afternoon sun. The restaurant was a rustic affair, with a large wooden sign carved with a lumberjack wielding an axe. The air buzzed with a friendly energy, the scent of hickory smoke mingling with the laughter of patrons. Jake parked his bike and stepped inside, instantly drawn to the warmth and the lively atmosphere. The place was packed, a mix of bikers, families, and locals all enjoying the good food and good company. He found a seat at the bar, next to a group of bikers who were swapping stories and downing beers. They welcomed him with open arms, their faces etched with the lines of a life lived on the road. Jake ordered a cold beer and a plate of ribs, the meat falling off the bone with a satisfying snap. He noticed the waitress, a young woman with a bright smile and a red flannel shirt, expertly navigating the bustling restaurant. She had a confident swagger, a hint of steel in her eyes that mirrored the spirit of the place. He overheard her telling a table of tourists about the axe-throwing competition, a playful challenge that drew a mix of laughter and nervous excitement.