"Motorcycles are everywhere"

We saw a sign in Idaho that said "Motorcycles are everywhere" and it became a catchphrase of ours for a few days. When we got to South Dakota, it was the truth. There were motorcycles everywhere, usually driven by stout men with leathery brown skin. We were going to Sturgis.



Sturgis was a sea of people, common to large festivals. It had the ambience of the world's noisiest t-shirt shop. Marvin walked at my feet; I wore a tomato-red dress and a straw sun hat through the crowds of leather-clad cyclists and sweet older women in t-shirts that said "I feel a sin coming on." A sincere man gave me a glass bead and said, intently, that it was the blood of Christ and that he died for me. I thanked him and took a brochure.

Giant billboards advertised Ozzy Osbourn, the Scorpions, Motley Crue, and Bob Dylan. Like most of the motorcyclists, these artists are past their prime, now sporadically going through the motions of their youth. That sounds cruel, but I don't mean it to be; it is good to relive something that you once were, or once hoped to be.

After walking up and down the streets with the crowds of people, I went for a hike up the nearest hill, and Sarah went for a drink in a biker bar. The hike gave me a chance to observe the black hills up close; all ponderosa pine, tall grass, and rocky outcroppings. Sarah got to meet a local, someone from 10 miles away. "He was an Army guy, telling tales of glory in Alaska. He was talking about his upcoming epic bike trip to Grand Canyon, San Francisco, Portland, and back" says Sarah.

We left Sturgis amid a swarm of bikers that gradually fell away until there were just a few, like persistent bees. We went to Wall Drug, where we found a fake Mt. Rushmore to get our picture taken, then went to a strange salad bar joint where bikers ate iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing. Cute young Ukrainians staffed the place; our Ukrainian said it was an exchange program, and that "it was satisfying" work. I hope they're having a wonderful time.